ƬΉΣ ƬΛIПƬΣD ΛПD ƬΉΣ ƬЯЦΣ
by Swyfte
Summary: The battlefield is quiet, serene. Far away there's a basement choking with gloom, a warehouse that's brimming with plots. The golden spider spins her web and laughs, while the shadows grow longer and the clouds ever darker. It's time to take sides. Sequel to The Poisoned and the Pure.
1. Catharsis

**Long overdue, isn't? Sorrrry guys. If you just happened to click on this story and have no idea what it is, I suggest you read its predecessor 'The Poisoned and The Pure'. If not, things may explain themselves. **

* * *

_On the battlefield, there is ash. There is the ash of a fire finally dead. Its embers are guttering husks, and its heat, which once scalded everything it touched, is growing cold. Growing cold with the corpses. There is no one left alive. No one for them to burn, for their blaze has finally turned on them._

_She knows that she's done this. Every slit throat, cracked spine, gutted belly are a result of _her _fire, the inferno that broils below the surface, red-tipped tongues of passion and thirst. This blood, she has wanted it, for so long. She thought she'd never see it, feel its hot pulse beneath her paws. Somehow, it gratifies her, this presentation of gore._

_Now, they share her scars._

_In this red-and-grey landscape, it doesn't matter that everyone she knows is dead. They've fought with her, and they've died for her. Good for them. But she's sated, satisfied, and that's all she feels._

_Moving, she stares down at the faces. Some she knows, and most she doesn't. She's looking for someone. She'd like to know he's dead. Beside her, she finds a little she-cat, pretty beneath her dusting of blood. Her lovely dapples are stained a slowly-dulling crimson. Terror remains in what were her eyes._

_The victor continues down a path simply teeming with bodies. In death, there are no differences, no alliances. One enemy lies with another, locked in lethal embraces._

_The sky is thick with ash. The blue sky above it weeps with it, and seems that the clouds will cry over the slaughter they've witnessed and wash away the sins. Cleaning the battlefield won't be easy. In years, perhaps, this will again be a pretty, secluded meadow, the slaughter swallowed by the earth. Now, it's only a cesspit of blood and demise, already reeking. She should really get out of here, before some carrion creature comes crawling out to lick up the scraps._

_Maybe she's the real scavenger, feeding off this deathly miasma, gorging the beast within she's only just woken._

_Then she finds a puddle of tabby fur, and she's not sure who it is; if it's the one she hates or the one she needs. She's either too excited or dying of fearful anticipation. Before she can roll him over, or even think of touching him, she wakes._

This time round, she foregoes the obligatory post-nightmare gasps, although she can't control the flutter of her heartbeat. This is old territory she's navigating, but she's no more prepared for the dreams than she was in the beginning. They've gotten better over the moons. At least now, where she goes without waking, she's the one with the power. She's already won.

He's wrapped around her, the one that's made her what she is, far closer than he should ever be. But he calms her, with his touch, with the soft, gentle sound of his breaths. He seems entirely innocent, but she knows he isn't. He's got scars, although they're hidden; together, him and her are a matching set.

Slowly, she eases out of his grip, wondering if he'll wake disappointed in the morning, or if he'll even have a clue what he's done in the first place. It wasn't proper, but once she settles her old score, she can love him as much as she wants. Because she's not in one of her dreams; and the fight hasn't been won for her.

"Go back to sleep." She glances back at him, a lazy dark slump in the darkness, and wonders if he's even awake. Just in case, she doesn't reply. Maybe she's hearing things. It wouldn't be the first time. But then her tabby companion reluctantly uncurls, sitting by her side. He's still too close- their fur brushes as they breathe. He shouldn't be distracting her, but every time, she lets him.

"Bad dream?" he asks, his side swelling against her own.

"As always," she murmurs, dragging her tail over the rough fabric of her nest, the irritating material she'd happily exchange for anything else the world had to offer.

"We'll fix that," he tells her, the same vow as ever. Dynamics are changing, but his words aren't.

Even now, they're striving to chase the dreams away. They're still planning and plotting and calling on old favours. It's not a question of if she can purge them from her mind, but when. How bloody and brutal the affair can become. Who they'll lose in the process; just what she'll dream of when she's tasted the blood she's longed for, and if he'll still be there to smile and whisper with her in the aftermath.

Ditching the noble idea of propriety, she leans against his solid tabby shoulder, ignoring the fact that she could kill him in the tomorrows to come.

* * *

_We don't need no education_

_We don't need no thought control_

_-_Another Brick In The Wall, Pink Floyd

* * *

Resourcefulness is a useful skill, if no one knows you have it. Khia's discovered this; she's lived at Tillman's all her life- although she's considerably younger than she'd like to be- and in her moons as something of a resident, she's picked up things. Unintentional tips and hints, offhand information in passing comments.

The toms were flippant like that; they guard the halls, not their mouths.

She always tells her brother where she goes, because in the crowded old house, he is the only one she trusts completely, with her words and secrets. Her observations. Khia is in possession of another two 'brothers' and a 'sister', and although it is clear they share relations, they are not siblings. They'd shared a mother, but that was in the moons after their birth and not before.

Khia and Cariad are not obviously related. She is small and slim, where the black tom has a bulkier build clearly destined for scraps and blood-shedding. His pelt is plain and dark; she is a medley of fawn and dark dust, streaked with dapples. Perhaps her green eyes hold some of his amber, and the right lighting can reveal the flecks of viridian in his molten gaze. Her aunt-turned-mother has the same eyes, but none of her cousins do. The grey tom, Brine, has gold. Ruari and Etch share a charismatic amber.

The others, of whom there are many, are no relations of hers. That doesn't mean the guards don't shove her in a pen with the other kits. They don't share blood but they share a prison. They all look the same in the darkness.

There's a lot of Twoleg junk cluttering Tillman's; these are her resources too. When she escapes on her daily jaunts around the house, she can hide, no matter how bad the smell is. Every room reeks. Khia watches, even the things she ought not to watch, the things she doesn't understand. It's the scenes she spies on that make her think there's a reason they're all kept below in the basement. It's a mercy, misguided as it is.

The more she grows, the more she sees.

The queens who huddle in crates and boxes and all manner of hollow objects are prisoners too. The toms- the Bayard, most of all- do not run one large, happy family. They run a business of repute. It's so easy to begrudge them for it. There's only privilege for some and pain for the rest.

Ru has caught her out of the pen many times. The first, she'd only made it as far as the steep wooden steps. Her legs were too short, so she gave up on the third worn ledge and waited for him to collect her. The red tom later remarked her pout was most unbecoming.

The second and third time, she hadn't learned the trick of silence. She'd been a stumbling, clumsy thing, lucky Rhydderch was the one to find her. Now, he just knew where she liked to haunt, those she was most likely to watch. He wasn't her father, but he parented her. It was him, the silver-tongued charmer, who told her and Cariad that Arrah was not their mother. Tillman's crumbling, reeking abode was not their home.

He'd left it at that, because for once, he was awkward with his words.

Cariad was sullen after that, insisting their parents didn't want them. They'd been abandoned, and it was thanks to the Bayard's questionable hospitality they were alive at all. Khia hadn't want to hear that, or feel the bitterness perforate her skin. She tried to cheer him up, but none of the ongoings aboveground were particularly merry.

He was miserable; she failed at being chipper; the kits around them were whinging lost souls; the pen queen was a snarky, snappy shadow in the corner. Meals were at odd, irregular intervals. Rhydderch visited everyday, looking perhaps a little wistful, and returned her when she was done wandering.

Until the sleek scarred she-cat slips into the house, a dark tabby on her heels, imperial in her imperfections. Khia watches the Bayard hobble out to meet the pair. To her, '_the Bayard_' is a title. To their apparently esteemed guests, it's only a name. For a moment they politely talk of weather and revolution. The grey queen with the scars is called Miss, her striped and benign companion Emory. Together, they pretend not to notice the smell. When they ask for privacy, the Bayard obediently limps, bones creaking, from the entrance hallway. Khia crouches behind an extravagant, discarded blue vase and watches, ears twitching.

Something is different about these two, and it's not the pale puckered skin marring Miss's thick fur.

"This place smells foul," Emory remarks in a hushed undertone, sparing a repulsed glance for the towers of Twoleg treasure. "Even worse than last time."

"We're not here for the smell," the she-cat reminds him gently. "We need every bit of help Bayard can give us."

"It's not for free," Emory mutters.

"It's perfect," Miss disagrees quietly.

This ends their moment of privacy; the Bayard reappears and ushers them into a relatively clean room to discuss business. Khia follows them into the small space. A squat white box is pressed against one wall. Dirty Twoleg garments litter floor, heaped into nests. When trades aren't being concocted, the guards and other toms often sleep here.

"You've asked for a large order," the hunched tabby begins. He rasps in a way that grates against her ears. He's hoarse in a way she'll never like. "Large demands call for larger payments."

"You'd think the destruction of a an old city foe is payment enough," Emory growls. To Khia, it seems Emory holds the fire, the grit that Miss lacks. But she's never walked the grey queen's dreams nor heard the venom of her thoughts. Khia doesn't realize what kind of corruption a vendetta can wreck. But even Emory's bravado in the face of the anile old tabby gains him nothing.

"PureClan is good for business," the Bayard rumbles. "But we aren't arguing politics. We're discussing prices."

Miss flicks her tail dismissively. "We'll pay whatever you want for the lot. Food, bedding."

"We can't give you the _entire batch_. Enough for your doomed plans, yes. Three moons food and bedding, yes."

Emory looks set to argue again. Miss reigns him back with a look that threatens to break her soft veneer. The she-cat appears ready to comply with whatever price and demands the Bayard makes. She's either naive or desperate.

Khia twitches her nose. Over the musk of accumulated rubbish, she smells something familiar and begins to think she hasn't chosen her hiding place quite well enough. An imposing russet tom stands behind her, above her; but he's grinning. With a nod to the trio in the laundry, he picks up her small basket and moves down the hallway.

She's set down on a stack of newspapers, and immediately, tumbles from her roost.

"Spying, Khia?"

She grimaces up at him. "They were talking about us, weren't they? The kits."

Rhydderch lets his smile fall. "You shouldn't listen in on conversations you aren't privy to, Khia. You shouldn't even be up here."

Frustration gnaws at her, stamps her foot against the small patch of wooden floor she can reach. "That's not an answer," the dappled she-kit tells him sternly. But she's afraid. The Bayard was using words like _doomed_, and Emory _destruction_, and she knows they weren't meant lightly. Something dark is outside Tillman's, and the pair in the next room would like nothing more than to drag Khia and her penmates into its midst. She shoves her nose into Ru's muzzle, vehemently wishing he'd stop sidestepping answers. He doesn't seem to like the truth, the one tom she actually likes.

"Don't you worry, Spots. Nothing's going to happen to you, I promise."

She jerks away, because she knows it's true. He's not above abusing his power and privilege to keep her safe, to keep her in the darkness downstairs rather than let her into the one beyond the house.

"It's not about me!" she insists. "What's out there? What about Cariad and Brine and Ruari and Etch? All the others?"

The reddish tom peers into her eyes, consternation on his face. "Let me tell you something about your parents. They didn't give you to me so your life could be thrown away in some futile revolt. You're here in this hole so you can _live_."

The comment about her parents passes over her ears. "Revolt," she echoes. Rhydderch groans, pushing his face into a discarded, dented box.

"Let it go, Khia, let it go," he warns, stooping to clench her scruff between his teeth. He rises again, and she feels the familiar sensation of her stomach dropping through her paws; really, she's too old to be lugged around anymore.

She wants to know more, but although Rhydderch likes to speak, and loves the sound of his own voice, she knows he won't say anymore about this. Besides, he has a mouthful of her neck fur, and prompting a conversation out of him would probably land her on the floor. It's happened before, and though unintentional, it hurt.

But she's not done talking about this. As soon as she's dropped back in the crowded pen in the basement, she'll head straight for Cariad. She tells her brother everything, always.

ALLEGIANCES- TILLMAN'S:

BAYARD: haggard reddish tabby tom

RHYDDERCH: lean red-furred tom

UMBER: hulking dark tabby tom with with chest and chin

CIAR: black tom with wide amber eyes and muscular haunches  
ROAN: dark grey tom flecked with white  
OERIC: pale golden tom with ginger stripes and white paws  
EDOM: dark russet tom

LLWYD: grey tom with white underbelly and black patches  
ARGYROS: silver tabby tom with bright, round blue eyes

SKAH: long-furred white tom, mismatched blue and green eyes

GUARDS:

RAFAEL: black-and-white tom  
ENECO: bright ginger tom with white belly  
ALAIN: tiny silver tabby with splash of white on his chest  
TUBAL: solid grey tom, amber eyes

BRICE: dull brown tom with darker speckles

EDMOND: plain tabby tom

BJORN: large black tom with squashed muzzle

EDOCTA: small yellow tom

AMENKO: golden tom with white paws, chin and belly  
NEKHT: white tom mottled with brown

QUEENS:

ETINE: small black-and-ginger tortoiseshell

MEDEIA: sleek grey she-cat with black dapples and creamy underbelly

RIMASE: cream she-cat, dark blue eyes  
ARRAH: pale grey she-cat with darker, steely streaks

AKANTHA: long-furred white she-cat with green eyes  
KALLIGENEIA: pale, creamy-furred she-cat with brown paws, tail and muzzle

MEGARIA: lithe clouded tabby, large hazel eyes  
SKYLLA: short-haired white she-cat with odd, bat-like ears  
TETHYS: smoky black queen, flat muzzle  
ZURINA: tiny white she-cat with mismatched eyes  
LIADAN: grey-and-white she-cat  
AMBRE: tawny white-pawed queen

ADONCIA: white she-cat with cream back and brown ears and tail  
GISÈLE: yellow-eyed pale brown tabby

MALLORY: slim black she-cat, brindled with gold

OREA: large golden tabby with paler underbelly  
YERAZIG: long-furred tabby she-cat

PELE: ticked red tabby  
BERLIN: dark blue-grey she-cat with black tail tip and paws  
EBRU: blue merle with dense patches  
RIO: plump lilac she-cat

EMESE: light fawn queen with a brown stripe down her spine  
CHIASA: blue tabby tortoiseshell with white legs and underbelly  
BASILIA: pale sorrel she-cat

BELAKANE: fawn tabby she-cat

FUMBE: bulky black she-cat, white tail tip  
ISOLD: pale grey she-cat with white socks and icy blue eyes

ANWYN: chocolate tabby she-cat

ELUNED: dark grey she-cat with white paws and pale flecks

RHAMANTUS: small yellow tabby she-cat

KAMALA: petite red tabby

SARIKA: short-furred white she-cat with dark grey spots on her head, lower legs and tail

JAELLE: long-legged brown mink she-cat

KITS OVER THREE MOONS:

ANAT: white she-kit with brown muzzle and tail

CEADDE: grizzled black tom-kit

WREN: pale lavender tabby she-kit

RUARI: dark russet tabby tom with bright amber eyes

CARIAD: bulky black tom with short tail

ARGANTE: sleek silver tabby she-kit with dark fawn stripes

MODRON: dark golden tabby she-kit

CHIMALLI: pale brown tabby tom

BRINE: grey tom flecked with darker streaks, gold eyes  
CAPRICE: large she-kit with a thick black pelt

ETCH: soft-furred, dappled grey she-kit

NUR: red tom with faintly striped legs and tail  
HARROW: large grey tom with one clouded, milky eye

ELETTRA: bright sorrel she-kit with ginger rings around amber eyes  
BEELZEBUB: ghostly grey tom with green eyes  
AZAZEL: sandy-gold she-kit, ginger muzzle

CILLÍN: tawny tom with thick black stripes

GIDEON: cream tabby tom with kinked tail

AELLA: wiry cream she-cat with ginger patches

LYRIC: little white she-kit with green eyes  
JALEH(dew): silver she-cat with faint grey speckles

IIRO: large dark brown tabby tom  
KIN(gold): heavyset golden tabby tom

TUI: thin black she-kit with white throat

BESNIK: marbled blue-grey tabby tom

SALACIA: salt-and-pepper pelted she-kit

CORT: white tom with dark brown splashes

THADDEUS: bright ginger tom with white paws and blue eyes

BRAVA: faint yellow tabby she-kit, amber eyes flecked with green

AHRIMAN: sleek white tom with round blue eyes  
GINTARE: tawny she-kit with amber eyes and white stomach

AUSRA: red tabby with pointed muzzle

KHIA: pale, rosetted fawn she-cat

BALENDIN: solid, dark grey tom

IGNÁC: burly, fiery red tom-kit, narrow, dark eyes

* * *

**That's it. Decided to roll the prologue and Chapter 1 into one segment, otherwise they both would've been too short. I hope the idea of 'Tillman's' is clear to you; if not, it's essentially a kit-farm. It started off as a Hoarder going overboard, who is indeed Tillman. He's a bit old and senile now, and things are basically run by the Bayard, who sells kits to city cats for whatever his little feline heart might desire. Anyway: welcome to The Tainted and The True!**


	2. Vicarious

_I'm tired of the city life_

_Summer's on the run  
People tell me I should stay_

_But I got to get my fun_

_-April Sun In Cuba, Dragon_

* * *

Caraid is just another shape in the darkness. He's one smell among a fetid many. One more lump to trip over, another rumbling stomach that adds to the din. No more special than the she-kit to his right, the boisterous tom to his left. Khia is different. She escapes their basement prison, even if only for a few moments a day.

Today, she was already gone when Cariad woke up. The light that filters through the cracks at the top of the wall signal it's probably morning. The black tom uncurls and stretches. There's not much room for any movement; the pen is as full and cramped as ever. The air is still stale, so he guesses they haven't been fed yet.

He considers going back to sleep, because there's not a lot else to do, in this cage that's barely metres wide. If Khia were here, he'd talk to her, maybe force her into a scuffle. He'd fight with Ruari and Brine, but the two of them were always a team, and together, they always beat him. If they were still with Arrah, he'd pester her for information about his parents. Or maybe not. They did abandon him, he's found out, and he can't help but be a little sour about that.

None of the other kits here are his friends. He knows once he gets out of here- sold, for better or worse- he'll probably never see their faces again. Cariad barely talks to them, and it's only grudgingly that he sleeps close to them. Every one of them snores. He's secured a spot in the corner; it's colder than the middle of the pen, the main body of heat, but Khia curls up with him, and Etch with her, her brothers just behind them. He knows that it's nighttime, when they miss Arrah the most.

Caraid blinks, noticing, through the gloom, that most of the others are grouped at the far side of the pen- which, considering, is not really that far at all. They're clamouring for a story, because Tethys always gives in if they make enough noise. Cariad makes his way over, shuffling in the dark. He's had enough of sleeping.

Tethys is slumped against the wire. It's hard to tell, with her squashed muzzle, but she may be grimacing more than usual. Modron bats at her paws; petulant, Cort tugs her thick-furred tail. Cariad sits off to one side, wincing as some tiny bone crunches beneath his paw.

"You want to hear a story, eh?" the pen queen grunts. "I'll tell you a story that'll make you _glad_ you're locked up in here."

"Oh, yes!" the kits gush. "Please!"

The black she-cat fixes the group with a narrowed, amber stare. "You'll never be as safe as you are in here," Tethys begins, in her gravelly old voice. The kits stare up at her with wide eyes, already entranced.

"Know why?"

Caraid finds himself shaking his head with the rest of them.

"Because the cats out there aren't just any cats. There are alley cats. There's street royalty. But there's cats who aren't from here. They're our special visitors, a few times a year too many. Would you ever like to meet them?"

Modron, seated at Tethys's feet, nods. She's probably just like the rest of them; desperate to meet anyone new, anyone different, someone beyond the basement prison. The queen leans down and hisses a sharp, "No!" in her face. The little golden tabby recoils.

"They're evil," Tethys proclaims, ignoring the kit with suddenly quivering whiskers at her paws. "We call them the Raiders. They have named themselves PureClan. If the city ever had one, defined enemy, it would be them. _Monsters_. You know what they steal? Not food, not territory- cats. They steal cats and take them away, never to be seen again."

"Where do they go?" another tom-kit asks.

"To a haunting, eerie forest," Tethys growls. "Shadows drape the trees, and branches reach up into a sky that is only ever blue. They kill cats- like you, like me- for sport and fun. They line their nests with fur and bones; give their kits skulls to play with; bathe in blood. When they grab someone, they never come back alive."

"That's it?" someone says, disgruntled. This isn't the story any of them wanted, at all.

"Yes," the pen-queen grunts. "Now leave me alone."

Reluctantly, they all disperse, because the smoky black cat isn't above cuffing them around the head to get her point across. Caraid rises to his paws, intent on getting back to his spot and defending it from the others who might steal. It's all he's got, in this world, to protect. A patch of concrete.

Before he can reach his corner, someone darts in front of his paws, and he sprawls on the ground, grunting in surprise. Bumping into other cats isn't a rare occurrence, here where it is so dark. A small, warm shape cushions his fall with a very feminine yelp; for a moment he thinks it may be his sister, but it isn't because her smell is all wrong.

_I mean, not that it's wrong_, Cariad thinks. _It's a nice smell, honestly, it's just not Khia's._

The kit beneath him struggles, gasping for air. Sheepishly, Cariad climbs to his feet and mumbles a quick "Sorry."

His landing pad gets up, shaking dust out of her gingery fur. In the gloomy light, it appears to be a pale cross between gold and speckled yellow. He doesn't so much as see but _feel_ her glare. Then he's recoiling, because her very sharp claws have nicked his cheek. This is a shock, because Ruari and Brine never use claws against him when they play. This is also a shock because he's bleeding; he never knew he could do that. A drop of blood wets his lip, and it tastes metallic- it tastes how the wire fence smells.

"Oaf," she snarls, in a voice so filled with venom it could rival the guards'. Instinctively, Cariad fluffs out his fur and mimics her teeth-baring grimace. A grey tom-kit appears at her shoulder, nudging her away. She sends him a final hiss and shies away from her friend's touch. He doesn't know her name. Maybe she tends to stick to corners, just like him.

He makes back to his spot, where his littermates are tearing a piece of newspaper to shreds. He pushes past them without a word and curls up again. Khia ought to be back soon. They don't like being parted for long. She's encouraged him to go with her, on more than one occasion, but he's not nimble like his sister. He'd struggle to climb the fence, to slink past the slumbering toms like she does. Cariad doesn't think Rhydderch likes him as much as he does her. Maybe Khia only reminds Ru of himself.

Bored, he licks his paw- he learned to ignore the taste of dust and dirt on them days ago- and swipes it across his cheek. It still hurts, and he winces; this is nothing like the bruises he gained in play-fights. He peers down at his forepaw- something dark and sticky coats the pad. He sniffs it- it's the metallic liquid. He licks it away, because it doesn't taste so bad. It's reminds him of the prey they get, among the old, dry biscuits and the rags dripping with water, only this is fresh.

There's a sudden _thumpthumpthump_ to Cariad's right- the distinctive sound of Rhydderch scrambling down the stairs. The black tom pricks his ears and raises his muzzle, because Khia is probably with him. He can faintly see Rhydderch approaching the fence, face distorted by the thin wires. In the next moment, Khia is deposited back in the pen. She nods as the russet crouches, mumbling something to her through the barrier. Etch scurries over to them, beaming at the sight of her father. Her brothers start a tussle and begin to show off.

Khia moves over for her dappled littermate, and then, spotting Cariad, hurries over to him. She looks about as serious as he's ever seen her- more sombre, even, than when they were separated from Arrah.

"What?" he asks, forgetting any semblance of a greeting.

She ignores him, muttering obscenities she can only have learned upstairs. They're directed at the Bayard, mostly, with a few rude words dedicated to Rhydderch and his timing.

"_What_?" he demands, again.

She glances at him, then digs her claws into a tiny scrap of abandoned newspaper. "The Bayard. As usual." That seems about as much as she's willing to say, but he knows his sister; she'll spill it all only after taunting him a little first. He tilts his head on the side and waits for more.

"They're planning a big trade. Some she-cat and a tom. Talked about some old city 'foe', PureClan or something. It's not _just_ a trade, Cariad, there's more than that."

He blinks; wasn't cranky old Tethys just talking about PureClan?

"Tethys says they kill things," he tells her, unhelpfully. She ignores this.

"It's more than a trade. It's a revolt. A rebellion! And they want to drag us into it. But I don't think Rhydderch will let me go."

He stares at her and wonders why the idea of rebellion is so attractive to her. Cariad is glad she has Rhydderch's protection, because he knows how much she'd love to run headlong into the light, the glory and fabled fame she thinks war will offer her. But Khia is only a kit, and a small one at that, and the creatures in Tethys's latest story use death to spice up an idle, boring day.

At the top of the of the stairs, the battered door is flung open. A pale yellow light seeps into the basement in its absence; although all of them in the pen wince, they can't help but stare at it. They were born in that light and taken from that light. All of them want it back. Indistinct, the Bayard's voice drifts down to them, snapping the guards from their sleep. They scramble to attention; today it's Tubal and Amenko. Both are fond of naps.

Moving from the light, a dainty silver tabby moves carefully down the worn, smooth steps. A dark tabby follows at her shoulder, whiskers brushing her pelt. Reluctantly, the Bayard hobbles after them, slowly placing one paw after another. As far as Caraid knows, he hasn't been done here in years. He reaches the bottom and breathes heavily for a moment, leaning against the bottom step.

"Open the gate," he croaks at Tubal. The pair he's brought with him now stand in darkness. Hurrying to comply, the grey guard knocks the latch open with his nose. Unused to moving, the gate sits in place, until Tubal hooks his claws into the gridwork of wire and pulls it open. He and Amenko enter the pen, rounding the kits up into one big group. Khia sticks close by him; and then they're filtering out of the gate, far too slow for the guard's tastes. They mill around in one large, confused group, staring at the hunched old tabby they've only ever seen a few times in their life. None of them knows him, really, but they know he's the reason they're living their kithoods in a basement.

"In a line," the Bayard commands, and the guards echo it, hiss it until they scurry to find positions, a haphazard arrangement stretching from one wall to the other. Khia's shoulder, short as she is, presses against his belly. On his other side, a tabby jostles against him. The silver tabby steps forward, trying not to grimace in a very obvious fashion at the stench they've all lived in for moons. Caraid is also forced to push back a grimace, because now he can see the soft pink scars she wears. Her eyes look soft and gentle in contrast.

Her tabby never leaves her side; somehow, he's attuned to her movements, stepping where and when she does, but his eyes are on the assembled kits, his prospective trade.

She begins pointing certain kits out with her tail; they're quickly butted out of line and huddle in a corner. It's clear she's favouring a recurring theme; the big ones, the strong ones, the wiry, lean, tough ones. He sees Ruari and Brine go. He sees Etch stay; little Etch, who's still staring at her father.

The pair reach him, scrutinise him, scrape their eyes over his pelt and assess his merits. She nods, and he mirrors it- abruptly, Cariad is shoved out of the ragged alignment. He stumbles over to his littermates, and glances back at his sister, the only family who has ever wanted him. No one gets a chance to study her, because Rhydderch is directing them away, moving them along, shaking his head in a firm _no_.

_Not that one. She's too good for your war._

A few more are hustled into their ragtag group. He can't process what's going on. Because Khia was bursting with talk of rebellion, and he thinks, for him, things may very well get worse than a dark and gloomy basement.

* * *

ALLEGIANCES- THE REVOLT

MISS- pale grey tabby she-cat, heavily scarred  
EMORY: dark tabby tom with black rings around eyes

EVORI: slim black tom with yellow eyes  
FRAY: brown-eyed black tom

ANDREINA: dusty brown tabby, white throat and belly

AZRA: black-and-white tom

MAEJA: small white she-cat, torn ear

FELIKS: sandy ginger tom

KENNA: lean black she-cat

ABDERRAHMAN: heavyset grey tabby tom

VIOREL: scrawny blue-grey tom

BRITTA: small, lean grey tabby she-cat

MEINO: pale red tom, yellow eyes

GRETE: grey she-cat with soft dapples

TAMID: large black she-cat

AMALIA: wiry fawn queen  
TAMELA: fat calico she-cat

ARAMAZD: steel-grey tom

NADA: stocky tom with thick black pelt

SAHAR: reddish she-cat with white underbelly and blue eyes

IMMANUEL: golden tom mottled with brown patches

KERBOROS: dull-furred brown tom

SAGA: pale, short-furred she-cat with dark brown paws, tail and muzzle

* * *

**The next chapter is a little difficult to write. It might be a while before it's posted, but in the mean time, you could check out the A Drabble A Day challenge I'm writing.**


	3. Infallible

_Run from the past into the near_

_Nothing to fear_

_Run from the darkness into the clear_

_Nothing to fear_

-Under The Shadows, Rae Morris

* * *

Oakkit watches her sleep. Maybe it's weird, that they're still sharing a nest on the verge of their apprenticeship. Maybe it's unnatural. At first they slept here because it was _their_ nest, and it smelled of their mother. Now it's a habit, and he thinks perhaps he should enjoy it while it lasts, before they're thrust into different corners of the camp. After tomorrow, it's likely they'll never speak a word to each other again.

Emberkit gives a sudden, small snore, and he rolls his eyes. She may have Sablefrost's face and fur, but he's fairly sure the black queen never snored.

He hasn't slept at all, all night. It's not like he _doesn't_ want to leave the nursery- he does, he has, ever since he opened his eyes and realized there was more to his small world than the clearing he lived in. He's quite certain he'll be one of the best apprentices the Clan has ever seen. He won't even be leaving his friends behind.

_Maybe I'll miss her_, Oakkit thinks. _Even though I shouldn't_.

The tabby sighs and sits up. The faint, pale patch of light pooled on the nursery floor insinuates dawn might just be approaching. Nettlecloud's kits are sleeping, but the fawn queen herself is gone. Despite now being the closest thing he and Emberkit have to a parent, she's often absent. It doesn't trouble Oakkit. His mother is gone, and there's no use trying to replace her. Maybe Emberkit would disagree.

He can't tell, because she's perfected her mask already.

Yet, when she sleeps, there's no trace of it. Perhaps that's why he watches her now; she's vulnerable, tries to hide nothing. Unlike her waking hours, when she's barely ever there, where they exchange a maximum of five words a day. What's there to say? Emberkit is the one who listens, not talks, and Oakkit is the type who'd rather scuffle than open his mouth.

No form of eloquence is required in PureClan, and for that, he's glad.

"Hey," someone hisses, breaching the gap between their nests. He turns, pricking his ears; it's Burrkit. Looks like someone else can't sleep, either.

"What?" he hisses back, pretending he was really half-asleep all along. Nothing bothers Oakkit. The trivial, after all, is trivial.

Burrkit shuffles his paws. "Can't sleep."

He weighs the options in his mind- friendships are tactics, stratagems, alliances just short of affections. He could be civil, but the curfew for niceties has been and gone. He's not really that fond of Burrkit.

"Shut up and stop talking. That should help."

He rolls away from his friend and faces Emberkit. He hasn't woken her. He wonders what she dreams of, when not even his callous rudeness can bring her back to him.

* * *

Oakkit wakes up late; everyone else has left him behind. Typically, he's as tired as he was the moment his head hit the moss. Still, he's excited. Even sleep deprivation can't dampen that. The tabby gets to his paws and heads out, wondering if he's missed his own apprentice ceremony. If Sablefrost would even care, where his father very obviously doesn't. He hasn't seen Strongclaw for a while in fact, but he suspects he spends hours at a time in the meadow. He took them there once, moons ago when he had been somber, not shattered. At the time it'd been fun, considering he'd completing thrashed his sister in a mock fight. But he looks back now, sees Strongclaw staring at his paws, sees him hiding something he hasn't bothered to since.

So he's surprised to reach the assembled Clan and see his father sitting with the crowd. Strongclaw and socialising just don't seem to mix anymore. It looks like they've just begun, and so one notices the stocky kit arrive late. He slips in behind Mallowkit, and although they're roughly the same age, he can see right over the top of his head. This doesn't achieve much, as Mallowkit happens to be sitting behind a large black tom, and Oakkit isn't _that_ tall. But if he cranes his head, he can just see Morningstar, leisurely reclining on the Speaking Hill, swiping her jaws with her tongue.

She pulls a face at the tom in front of her- the deputy, Oakkit thinks.

"Mmf. Who is it this time?" she asks, lazily scanning the crowd with slitted dark eyes.

Oakkit takes the initiative and pushes his way through the assembly. He doesn't care who he shoves past, or who can't stop staring at him like he's just finished taking a bath in his mother's blood. It's been what, three months? Three months and they can't stop treating him like he's the ghost.

_At least,_ he thinks, finding space alone in front of the leader, _if I am the ghost, then Strongclaw is the Clan's pariah._

"Ah, I know you," Morningstar says. She looks pleased, that at least she's remembered one of the rabble.

The other kits begin to join him- the other toms, Emberkit and her friends. Behind him, he can hear Duskkit and Flowerkit whispering to themselves, but their mother hasn't made an appearance. Oakkit isn't observant, not like his sister, but he knows Swanpath spends a lot of time in the medicine den, and she isn't there for the herbal incense.

"Under the eyes of StarClan, I rename these young cats Oakpaw, Emberpaw, Burrpaw, Mallowpaw, Fawnpaw and Mosspaw. Oakpaw, your mentor will be Sleetclaw. Burrpaw, you will be mentored by Thornstreak."

Morningstar pauses for a moment, glancing down at the tabby tom. He holds her attention for barely a second before she lifts her head and looks away. Oakpaw can't read what's in her eyes- he doesn't get that, reading cats' thoughts through their eyes, because how are eyes supposed to be expressive?- but he knows there's nothing fond in them.

"Mallowpaw," she continues, "your mentor is Tallstorm. Crookedflower will mentor Mosspaw and Streamshade, you will mentor Fawnpaw. I will mentor Emberpaw." As usual, there's no sense of ceremony to her words.

Oakpaw stares at his sister. Wonders how special she could be, if the leader has chosen her for her very own. And who did he get? A nobody. Maybe this is just what he needs- to fade into the background noise. Maybe, for a little while, he ought to be a nobody himself.

So he turns to face Sleetclaw. He knows nothing about the tom; in his mediocre life, this grey warrior has achieved nothing noteworthy at all. He has kits, but they're one of the foremost reasons he wanted to escape the nursery in the first place. The tom is standing behind him, and he looks a little nervous.

Oakpaw's stigma is one that precedes him.

His attention flickers for a moment; Emberpaw is slinking after Morningstar into the forest. She doesn't even look _happy_. Ungrateful.

"I'm going for a walk," Oakpaw announces. Sleetclaw twitches his whiskers and steps aside, and doesn't bother with a condescending speech about getting lost. He's probably relieved. Even without his heritage, Oakpaw is a handful.

He heads towards the woods and manages to look like he knows where he's going. It's not like he's never been out here before, because what kit doesn't sneak out of camp on occasion? It's that he's never been out very far on his own. He doesn't know where any paths lead, but he finds a well worn one and sticks to it. Solitude can be nice. Maybe this is why Emberpaw always insisted on her daily escapades, although Oakpaw thinks the familiarity will bore him in two moons time.

He wonders where his sister has gone, as he walks. Maybe she's learning twenty new moves to disembowel an enemy. Morningstar seems like that kind of cat. And here he is, out for a stroll. Oakpaw bares his teeth at the ground. Sleetclaw looks like the type whose most strenuous exercise is stretching to groom the fur on his lower back.

This is where he'd ask his father for advice- but oh, yeah, his real one is _dead_, and his faux father hardly bothers to hang around.

It's days like these where he hates Sablefrost, because she's made such a mess of everything and left them alone to muddle through it.

His paws touch something that isn't dirt; it's grass. Oakpaw looks up, hesitating. He knows where he is now.

_It's just a place_, he tells himself, frowning. _Why be afraid of a place?_

But it's not just a place, it's a meadow, where the sun shines until it sets and the birds sing the optimistic of songs. It's a meadow that hides red with green. Strongclaw holds a morbid fascination with the place. But that's it- it's a field. Nothing to fear. The field isn't responsible for the crimes it's witnessed.

He takes a step and wonder if they've left her here.

He takes a step and wonders if her bones are yellow or white.

He takes a step. And another. He takes a step and a voice growls at him to leave.

Oakpaw isn't surprised, to see who it is when he turns, although he's nearly unrecognizable. There used to be white, on his pelt- now it's a pale brown, stained with dirt and mud. He wears burrs in his pelt like small festive decorations. The apprentice isn't sure whether he ought to call him father, Strongclaw or stranger. So he justs asks why.

"You have no right to be here," he snarls. The blue in his eyes is masking something feral.

"It's the _Clan_ meadow," Oakpaw points out, trying very hard not to appear uncomfortable. He's going to be an amazing warrior, and what warrior quails at the sight of their deranged of-a-kind father? "So yeah, I think I have a few rights to be here."

Strongclaw emerges from the shadows of the trees, and although Oakpaw is anything but diminutive, he feels tiny beneath the tom's glare. Yes, he has been the subject of many whispers, the focus of many stares. But no one has ever shown him such hatred.

"You have no rights at all," Strongclaw whispers. Oakpaw strains to catch his words as they fall, yet he thinks they're the words he wants to hear least of all. "You have no rights, considering you're the reason she's even dead at all."

That's not want Oakpaw wanted to hear at all, so he bolts, before Strongclaw can spit out any more cruel truths.

ALLEGIANCES- PURECLAN

LEADER:

MORNINGSTAR: dark golden she-cat, tawny dapples

APPRENTICE- EMBERPAW

DEPUTY:

ICEFACE: icy-grey tom with thin grey flecks

APPRENTICE- CLOUDPAW

MEDICINE CAT MALE:

SORRELSTORM: ginger tom with darker streaks

APPRENTICE- PINEPAW

MEDICINE CAT FEMALE:

SPARKPOOL: plump, sandy ginger she-cat

WARRIORS, MALE:

FUSSYFUR: spiky-furred grey tabby tom

COLDBONE: grey tom with erratic stripes

PEPPERMASK: dark tabby tom with white chest and bold black stripes

APPRENTICE- FIREPAW

TALLSTORM: tall black tom with almond shaped yellow eyes

APPRENTICE- MALLOWPAW

GORSESPOTS: ginger tabby tom with white legs, belly and chin

APPRENTICE- SCARPAW

THORNSTREAK: dark brown tabby tom, short, tufted tail and scarred throat

APPRENTICE- BURRPAW

TORNEAR: large, scarred brown tom

APPRENTICE- WILLOWPAW

SLEETCLAW: pale grey tom with blue-grey patches

APPRENTICE- OAKPAW

FLEETSTORM: soft-pelted grey tom

APPRENTICE- NIGHTPAW

SLATETHORN: pale grey tabby tom with gold eyes

APPRENTICE- LITTLEPAW

STRONGCLAW: white tom with tabby and cream patches

APPRENTICE- VOLEPAW

WARRIORS, FEMALE:

FALLENFEATHER: light sorrel she-cat

APPRENTICE- SWIFTPAW

SHIMMERLEAF: white she-cat with black patches and, blue eyes

APPRENTICE- FERNPAW

REDSONG: reddish overo she-cat

APPRENTICE: SUNPAW

MEADOWMIST: white she-cat with green eyes

APPRENTICE- DAWNPAW

CROOKEDFLOWER: small tortoiseshell she-cat

APPRENTICE- MOSSPAW

LITTLEFERN: pale, creamy fawn she-cat with brown rosettes

APPRENTICE- FLURRYPAW

JAYFLIGHT: pale blue-grey she-cat

APPRENTICE- GOLDPAW

NETTLECLOUD: dappled fawn she-cat, wide green eyes

APPRENTICE- FLUTTERPAW

CHARPOOL: grey she-cat with thick ashy stripes

APPRENTICE- ASHPAW

STREAMSHADE: mottled grey she-cat with black paws  
APPRENTICE- FAWNPAW

APPRENTICES, MALE:

FIREPAW: bright ginger tom with white stripe on his back and yellow eyes

CLOUDPAW: fluffy white tom with orange tail and face

NIGHTPAW: black-and-white tom with blue paws

SCARPAW: muscular dark ginger tom

LITTLEPAW: small pale tabby tom, speckled with gold, amber-green eyes

WILLOWPAW: bulky, dark brown tabby tom with gold patch over one eye

VOLEPAW: grey tom with pale grey underbelly, white tail-tip and paws, blue eyes

MALLOWPAW: little dark brown dappled tom

BURRPAW: dappled dark brown tom with green eyes

OAKPAW: bulky tabby tom, amber eyes

APPRENTICES, FEMALE:

FLUTTERPAW: pale brown tabby with round amber eyes and white chest

GOLDPAW: small golden tabby with blue eyes

FLURRYPAW: white she-cat with scattered ginger spots over her haunches

ASHPAW: very pale grey she-cat with white underbelly, muzzle and chest, bright blue-green eyes

SWIFTPAW: small white she-cat with ginger patches and copper eyes

DAWNPAW: dark golden she-cat with light brown dapples and pale green eyes

SUNPAW: pure golden she-cat, dark amber eyes

FERNPAW: pale grey she-cat with luminous blue eyes

MOSSPAW: brown tabby she-cat with pale paws

FAWNPAW: pale fawn she-cat, snowy underbelly

EMBERPAW: green-eyed black she-cat with four white paws

QUEENS:

SWANPATH: frail white she-cat with black paws, muzzle and tail-tip, paired to Sleetclaw

(KITS:

DUSKKIT: grey tom with black muzzle

FLOWERKIT: thin with she-kit, dark grey paws)

SNOWDAPPLE: white queen with faint grey dapples, paired to Webfoot

(KITS:

DEWKIT: dappled smokey-grey tom

MISTKIT: pale silver tabby, blue eyes)

ELDERS:

WEBTAIL: stocky dark grey tabby tom

TAWNYPETAL: cream tabby she-cat with narrow amber eyes

WATERSTRIPE: pale marbled silver tabby tom

* * *

**Hella sorry about this, guys. School's been screwing with me and to be honest I just haven't been feeling the motivation I need to write this story (or anything at all, really), and I've been super busy. I'm not going to discontinue it, it's just going to take me longer to update, and as a result, this might be a shorter story than originally intended. Don't forget, your reviews mean the world to me, and they do help with inspiration.**

**I've also been working on an original collaboration with batmaaan, so there's that. There's also my Drabble A Day challenge, which is sproadically updated, if you wanted sablestrong fluff or crap like that.**

**Stay tuned.**


	4. Voyeur

And when you pray, he will not answer  
Although you may hear voices on your mind  
They won't be kind

-Chemical, Jack Garratt

* * *

Emberpaw hadn't known what to expect, but it wasn't this. She didn't strictly feel comfortable, following the grey tom as he made his way through the forest; but hey, leader's orders. The leader she'd barely spoken to for five minutes before being assigned her first 'mission'. Morningstar's word, not hers. This felt more like stalking, and while she'd done it in the past, to her own dearly departed mother, even, this felt different. Creepier.

So far, Morningstar had not proved herself to be the most engaging of mentors. She'd given a brief, half-hearted tour- "We call that a tree," and "This is a rock."- then vanished after pointing out Iceface and telling her to do what she did best.

Emberpaw thought about it for a moment, before deciding she didn't do anything well except for following, and, of course, listening. Even Sablefrost's death hadn't put a damper on that. She listened more than ever, and ditched her qualms about privacy. In a Clan where there was nothing to hide, what did privacy matter? Perhaps a little more than she'd initially thought.

The deputy, at least, had no idea about his recently acquired second shadow. Emberpaw followed in the treetops- something she'd started trying lately, now that she was getting bigger, and it was a technique that seemed to work. If she had a build the size of Oakpaw's she suspected she'd be snapping small branches left and right. Subtlety wasn't his strength, but she excelled at it. Sometimes she wondered if they were even related. He hadn't even congratulated her on receiving the leader as her mentor, but they'd slipped out of camp too quickly for any kind of felicitations.

_He's probably fuming_, Emberpaw thought, moving from one branch to another. It dipped under her weight, and she hurried on, keeping Iceface in her sights. _He probably wanted Morningstar for himself. The foxface ought to know that's impossible._ Insulting her brother in her head was developing into a bit of a hobby. She needed something to do, as she followed, and it was better than mulling over an ethically demanding question in her head. She'd tried that once, debating semantics in her head, just after her mother died. That day, she learned nothing new at all.

She was too young for ethics, semantics, morals, right and wrong. Maybe that's why she was following Iceface, obeying orders, spying without question.

Not that he made it hard. The icy grey of his pelt was anything but subtle in the muted browns and shady greens of the undergrowth. Emberpaw knew next to nothing about the deputy, but he wasn't having in odd in any way she could see. She'd watched cats often enough to tell casual from covert. Iceface wasn't on edge, and she hadn't seen him sneak a single wide-eyed glance over his shoulder. To Emberpaw, that indicated that the tom was doing something entirely innocent- or else he'd done this too many times before to worry.

Emberpaw liked to think the best of cats. She hoped the latter was not the case, because Morningstar was more than making a cat disappear. The river kept her secrets, after all.

Distracted by her thoughts, the newly-minted apprentices slipped a little, plunging her heart into her throat. Her claws gripped the bark she squeaked, finding her balance nearly as quickly as she'd lost it. By the time she recovered and looked up, the deputy had disappeared. She swore in her head, forgetting the fact that swearing was Oakpaw's vice, not hers. He swore all the time- with his friends, when someone stole the piece of prey his was eying up, when the apprentices went out to train and left him without an idol.

Gulping a little, Emberpaw straightened up and sunk her claws deeper into the bark. What a way to start her apprenticeship off, with a thud instead of a bang.

When she looked down at the path, Iceface had disappeared. The black she-cat blinked; she swore she'd only looked away for a few moments. Awkwardly, she navigated her way down the tree trunk. Going down was never as easy as getting up. She hit the ground, leaves crunching underfoot. The loud noise made her wince, but Iceface was apparently no where near enough to hear it. She set off, ears pricked. She was used to being a shadow, and shadows made no noise. Then again, shadows never lost the object they tailed.

She tastes the air. She hadn't memorised Iceface' scent, because that would be weird, but it didn't matter; nothing stood out. Just the standard smelled she'd encountered a hundred times before, mice and dead leaves and fresh foliage. Emberpaw really doubts that Iceface reeks of mice.

She moves on, careful, this time, not to make a sound.

The deputy can hardly have moved far. She was distracted for only a second or two. She wonders what Morningstar will say, when she goes back to camp and tells her she lost his trail. _She'll make a great spy_, Emberpaw thinks. _Just brimming with potential._ But she's only drinking in the smells that have assuaged her her whole life. Until she stumbles across something, cat musk that's distinctly unfamiliar, foreign. It's acerbic, biting, something she's never discovered before. PureClan smells earthly, natural. Emberpaw would stretch as far they all possessed a _friendly_ scent. This was none of those things.

Curious, she followed it. Maybe Morningstar knew more than she was telling Emberpaw. Maybe Iceface deserved this breach of privacy. The trail was faint at first, meandering around bushes and over rocks, aimless, ambiguous. She felt a little uncomfortable. What if she stumbled upon a Tainted? Her brother was the fighter in the family. She could, what, spy something to death?

She curses the white on her paws, pallid crescents she certainly did not inherit from Sablefrost. Her mother was an unbroken shade of sleek black. At one point, she'd thought the white was from Strongclaw's side. Clearly, that now is an impossible thought. Frankly, she'd never really spared Smokefang a second thought, and when she did, he was already dead.

Emberpaw blinks and banishes all thought of her father from her mind. It's his fault her mother died, his own fault that he fell to his death. She's not going to glorify him by thinking about it.

The black apprentice concentrates, picking up a few distant words. They're indistinguishable, but they're something she can follow. Warily, Emberpaw heads towards the sound. She's not sure if it's Iceface, the owner of the strange scent, or just a mentor and their apprentice, out on the obligatory forest tour.

It could be her brother, but he doesn't seem the type. He'll be wherever it is they're supposed to train, learning some real moves for once.

The words grow distinct as she nears, and she pauses. She can't be sure it's Iceface at all, but the second voice is unrecognizable, as strange as the scent that preceded it. Emberpaw is apprehensive. In all of her collective shorts moons, which number roughly six, she's never felt this way about watching. Not even when she witnessed the twilight hisses of her parents, the secrets of the Clan, all conversations presumed private. But she presses forwards, because even if she is not the most obedient or acquiescing of cats, and she couldn't care less if Morningstar gave her a command (well, yes, she cares, but not that much) she herself is curious. These clues, of which there are a total of three, don't lead lead to a rational conclusion, or even a moderately acceptable one.

"-and so the trade has gone through, but they're still so young yet that we don't know what to do with them. They've doubled our ranks at least, and we get a few more volunteers every day or two."

There's a snort, and the black apprentice is fairly confident that this voice is Iceface. "I doubt they're in it for the right reasons. A full belly now is all very well and good, but they'll fail us at the finale."

"They know what they've signed up for, at least." The next words are lost as Emberpaw shuffles toward the pair. She catches a glimpse of signature grey through the undergrowth, and beside it, a shade of black that's ultimately too familiar. She's never met this dark stranger before, but she can't help but think its pelt bears a resemblance to her dead mother. Admittedly, Sablefrost's fur may be little than tatters, ragged black ribbons, but it's her memories that matter.

She sees the black cat smirk. "This campaign is better than a life in a basement."

Iceface shakes his head, but he doesn't deny this, and Emberpaw begins to wonder what a campaign is- what is a basement, and why is the idea of living in one is so detestable.

"I think your time is up, Kenna. You ought to be getting back by now. Unless you have anything useful to add?"

Kenna twitches her whiskers. "You know I love our gossip sessions, but I concur. I have no pressing desire to have my throat slit today. Until next moon?"

Iceface inclines his head. "Until next moon. Give them my regards."

They both stand, and the apprentice shuffles back as quietly as she can. Kenna is the first to leave, slipping into the undergrowth without a further word. Emberpaw stares after her, noting that her eyes are brown, not green. She's scrawnier than her mother ever was, her pelt a little lacklustre, her ribs more prominent. Iceface's eyes track her movement too, watching as the stranger disappears into the shadows.

This seems as good a time as any to follow Kenna's lead- in fact, she's tempted to follow the she-cat, to see where she goes, where she's come from, to figure out their conversation. But she knows she shouldn't, because she's evidently on guard, alert in an alien territory. Morningstar will undoubtedly note her absence, and that would lead to consequences Emberpaw would rather leave untouched.

Emberpaw crouches, backing away until she can no longer see the deputy's face through the ferns. She makes a misstep, cursing as a twig snaps beneath her paw. This is her second of the day, and she can't afford any mistakes at all. The tom snaps to attention; she can hear him getting to his paws, hears the snap of protesting joints as his head whips around.

"Hello?" he calls cautiously. "Morningstar?"

She bites back a gulp and eyes up the tree beside her. It's sparsely populated with branches, but that hardly matters. No one ever bothers to look up. She claws her way up the trunk, its rough bark combing the leaf litter from her belly. The sound of movement below her freezes her in her tracks, and she clings to the bark, instinctively knowing this meeting was covert, clandestine, and meant for two pairs of ears alone. Intrusions will have certain repercussions, of course- this isn't a superficial exchange, the normal triviality she stumbles across.

Iceface moves below her, scanning his surroundings, failing to spot her. With this trick of hers- which, in reality, is less trick and more skill in nature- Emberpaw goes virtually undetected. Tree-climbing is not a valid sport in PureClan, because where they hunt, they dash across cement, concrete, grass, hide in alleys and shadows, and rarely is there a tree to be seen. Emberpaw's yet to learnt this.

"Who goes there?" he calls. Emberpaw's in the middle of formulating an extremely sketchy plan involving dropping on his head and attempting to batter him unconscious when he moves further on, turning over leaves and peering under brambles, over briars, between the leaves of bushes. The apprentice wonders just how he's retained his position as deputy if he can't even think to look up. Just because lumps like him can't climb doesn't mean others can't either.

Iceface startles as a blackbird streaks towards the canopy, shrilling out a raucous and entirely unnecessary warning. He shakes his head, snorting to himself. Then, as she waits with a breath that just won't leave her throat, he leaves, navigating his way back to the main pathway with his perpetual frown of indifference back on his face. Emberpaw sighs in relief, but only after he's out of earshot and she can allow her muscles to relax again.

There's no point in jumping from tree to tree until she reaches camp, so she ungracefully jumps from the tree. She lands awkwardly, inwardly promising to work on it.

Iceface's scent is faint, when she follows it back. She takes that as a good sign, but she's in no hurry. When she arrives at the clearing, Emberpaw catches Morningstar's gaze immediately. The golden she-cat is reclining in the sun, half-heartedly picking the scales off a minnow. She may have caught it herself, but knowing what she does of Morningstar, Emberpaw thinks it's unlikely. The leader waves her over.

Emberpaw is addressed bluntly. "What did you find?" Morningstar asks. "What did he do?" She discards her maimed minnow, pushing herself to her paws. Her height is intimidating.

"Nothing," the apprentice says, shrugging. "He went for a walk, missed some prey. That's it."

Morningstar stares at her with narrowed eyes, but she's guarded. If this news, or lack of it, surprises her, she doesn't let it show.

"Very well then," the leaders says, airily, unbothered. "Go make yourself a nest. No apprentice of mine will sleep in the nursery."

The minnow is the focus of her languid attention once more, and Emberpaw turns around, wondering if it really was that easy. She wonders just what Kenna represents. Wonders who sent her.

_Give them my regards_.

* * *

**Well. That took a while. Sorry. I think I warned you guys about this. I'm not dead, nor have I given up on this story, but updates will be sporadic. I have both work and school and an astounding lack of motivation to write anything at all, but I'll try to fix that. In the mean time I have my Drabble a Day challenge which you can read, which is pretty much PureClan-orientated. There's some Sablestrong fluff and maybe a few spoilers in there too,**

**How did we enjoy Ember's point of view? Next up we'll be seeing something a little different. The following chapter will deviate from the set four point of views, but for now, you can only guess who it'll be.**

**Please leave a review, they do help with my inspiration. Feel free to point out any errors, as this is an unedited chapter.**


	5. Malign

I'm sinking like a restless stone  
with demons in my head  
I feel you wear my skin to bone  
with darkness in the air

-Coming Back, Dean Ray

* * *

He wakes up, and the sun is blinding in his eyes. Shifting, he tries to remember why he fell asleep in such a bright place anyway; when he haunts shadows, he has no need for the light. Normally dawn finds him sequestered in an alley, hidden beneath boxes or some haphazard shelter. Not today, and he can't recall the reason why.

The black tom gets to his paws. There's an another pain in his foreleg, a second primal pulse, and this too is a mystery. He's wondering if he had some kind of accident. If some spectre from his past has caught up with him. He dismisses the latter. The ground is slick with rainwater, and it's likely he's fallen and hit his head. Scraped his leg. That's why he's so stiff, so reluctant to move, because he's been lying comatose in a puddle for hours.

Ignoring the pain becomes the focus of his morning. He's got a schedule, this cat, and it's all about scavenging. He sticks to the dark corners, the inlets of shadows, because he doesn't mix with the sun. He stands out like tar, and he likes the obscurity of invisibility. If one stray knows what you look like, they all do, and then they all come out for blood. So he goes about his scavenging in a subtle way, pawing through garbage that's been looted before, barely there long enough to leave a scent. He's stuck somewhere between scrawny and stocky, and maybe it's because of this, being so introverted, so flighty, so unwilling to take risks. This is his persona, at least, and he sticks with it.

He finds chicken remnants, clinging staunchly to their lean and greasy bones. The fat and the skin have been picked over, torn at, ravished, but he eats what remains. These are second-hand scraps, and he moves on quickly. Cold, stringy strips of noodles behind a place as filthy as his paws. Water from puddles, gutters. He takes what he gets, and he takes it as fast as he can. He's not fussy, but that doesn't mean he has eating etiquette.

The hunt for food is a continuous one, but it becomes less important as the day wears on. It's a cold one, and the clouds are long, stretching from high-rise to prosaic high-rise. The day has an ultimately bleak feel, but he doesn't mind. That's what life is, in the city, isn't it? A life as bleak as the outlook. As cold as the gritty puddles he drinks from, as lonely as the wind, who always howls, but never finds solace.

He starts watching, as one hour lapses into a another. Hides behind the window of a broken building, watching two toms duel. They slink off at the end, ragged, pelts in tatters, and he doesn't really see a winner. He doesn't get into spats like that. They're stupid- they're a gamble, a risk. _So I _could _win if I do this… and I _could _lose if he does that… _And that circle continues until it's too battered to spin. The what-ifs. All those possibilities could land him dead in a gutter, food for that rats, the crows, those who would pick his thin bones and leave them to bleach in the winter air.

He figures he could sleep here, except the entrance is too glaringly obvious, and he doesn't doubt that guests will grace this dark expanse once night falls. He's safer down some obscure alley, sleeping beside rubbish or beneath a skip. Colder maybe, and prone to a chilled death, rather than a violent one, but he's happy with those odds. He only bothers to sleep inside when the visitors from the north come to call. They hardly ever bother hunting indoors, and maybe that's a hint to their feral origin, the dark wilderness they call home.

He saw one, that last time they came raiding, a kind of cat unprecedented in his memory. She was a burnished gold, covered in blood that wasn't her own. She shone beneath the streetlights, and as she strode by, he could only shiver and hide. She wasn't the first he'd ever seen, but she was the wildest; the flame in a city full of moths.

He deserts the warehouse, shaking away the thoughts. That was a few moons ago, now, and they haven't been back since. No one he knew disappeared alongside them- but that doesn't mean anything, because he hardly keeps tabs. The two toms have gone, leaving the tang of blood and fear in their wake. The image of their fight has sparked something in his mind- a memory, perhaps, forgotten alongside the dredges of last night, the hours of shadows he finds impossible to recall. He was supposed to meet someone.

After a few moments, he decides it's obvious.

He's not the type to schedule constant, casual meetings, so he remembers this for its importance, for the strange interruption it brings to his life. He remembers it's a late night meeting; clandestine. He remembers it's down a tiny alley somewhere- by an old dilapidated factory, smelling acerbic and disused. But he can't recall when this meeting was organised. Last night, perhaps.

So he begins walking. It's a factory he's visited before, when he was young, when he still slept indoors. He shirks contact, normally. But he feels this is different. It makes him apprehensive. He likes his hermit life, his ingrained misanthropy. He's spoken so little in the last few months, he wonders if his voice still works. If he can still read the social cues of alley life. Probably not.

The sky is dimming with abandon as he picks his way through the gutter. The occasional monster thunders past, but he barely flinches. They stick to their parallel path; he sticks to his. He supposes they don't even notice him, a black smear against the concrete, and why should they? He's inconsequential, and they're hulking metal beasts.

The tom turns down a side street. The chemicals here are an afterthought in the air, faded and bitter. They're omnipresent here; they haven't been used for years, but they linger still. It's perhaps partially responsible for the distinct lack of Twoleg activity in the area. This was first and foremost a work district, but the bustle of people has given way to the lawless patrols of alley cats and street dogs.

When he reaches the the humble, crumbling facade of the factory, he halts. There's trepidation in his belly, and he's not sure if his uneasiness is caused by the gloom around him or his impending meeting. Surely he has no reason to be afraid. He grew up in this dank area, after all, and he had begun mapping its cracked streets soon after he learned to walk. He learned to walk, and then he learned to remember. He hasn't been back for a while, but he's not the type that forgets. Nightmares, not dreams, are made of this place. Spawned by this place, and the things he's done here.

Shivering, he pricks his ears. It's oddly silent, and all he can hear are the distant roars of monsters, back where warmth does seem to exist and the decay of the city is far less prominent. Was it presumptuous to imagine them talking, laughing? What's changed? But he does know what happened. He was a part of it. That day, however, is little more than a memory, a story. They'd have recovered by now. It's in their nature.

Movement catches his attention; a thick-furred tabby is hurrying across the street. This prompts him to move forwards. His destination, now, is quite obvious; the dark sliver between the fence surrounding the factory and the brick wall of the neighbouring building. His misgivings only increase as he nears the shadows. He thinks he remembers, hazily, the arrangement of this meeting. _Macro stands in an alley he likes to frequent. His face is perhaps a shade of foreboding, or else he's just the same serious tom he has always been. He spooks when he spots Macro, his brother's oldest friend. That title is arguable. He's more like a loyal ally or sidekick, battle-scarred and cantankerous. He's about to run, because he's faster, lither than this lackey of his brother. Macro tells him not to bother, with the fleeing thing. _It's gotten old_, are his words, and this stings. So he stays. Macro doesn't relay any news; he just tells him a time and a place, and he seems somehow to be missing the gruff edge he always displayed , moons ago. His eyes positively dare him not to show up. _Then it's blank, just empty spaces, but he remembers the mandated rendezvous. _Tomorrow, beside the factory. When it's dark. I hear you like that._

He's here now, and he won't flee this time. Not until he knows what Caligula wants.

The alley is eerie, when he enters it. It's perhaps as quiet as it's ever been. He doesn't dare call out to his brother. The silence is stifling- to his voice perhaps, but not to his fear. His feet scuff on the cement, slick with old rainwater, and he wonders if it was here where Drusilla bled out. Here where Caligula screamed as though he was the one dying. Where his sister's dark mate stood, beaten and bloodied, before fleeing.

"Tiberius." The voice speaks before his eyes adjust to the darkness. He flinches. He hasn't heard his name in a long time, and in a way, it feels like it died with Drusilla. His sweet sister, white-gold pelt like the sun, died red.

He steps forwards, pretending to be this Tiberius his brother knows. The rowdy one, the socialite, and, more often than not, the heart of dark street scandals. That facet of him has rotted. It doesn't exist anymore, but Caligula doesn't seem to know that.

"Caligula," Tiberius says, more retort than greeting. His brother's face swims in the shadows. It's the same face he grew up with, grinned at, laughed with. He's been told they look very much alike, but he does not believe that anymore. Not when the refractions of his past have driven him to a life of seclusion and scavenging, when he can't bear to affiliate himself with Caligula and their past.

"Isolation does not suit you," Caligula rasps. He doesn't approach him, but Macro appears at his shoulder. Perhaps they're wary of spooking him. Too late.

He sneers, and it's easy to fall back into the contempt and complacency of his younger years. "And your brutish nature, Caligula, has never been becoming. I suppose there's very little we can do about that." That's a lie. He was just as brutal when they were younger, together dreaming of an empire.  
His brother appraises him with narrowed yellow eyes. "You look much too scrawny. I'd hoped for more."

Tiberius bristles. "I wasn't aware my diet and exercise regime was not to your liking, dear brother. I'll remedy that immediately."

His brother bares his fangs. "Don't bother. It's too late." Tiberius only steps closer. Caligula is not standing to face him, to beat him down, and this is a first.

"What's too late?"

"You!" Caligula howls, quivering. Tiberius can see him now, all of him, but he wishes he couldn't. Wishes he could unsee his brother's mutilation, the bright and bleeding mess of his hindlegs. The white of his socks are stained with blood, crusted with dust. He didn't stand because he couldn't. They're broken, hopelessly, and perhaps his spine is too. Beside him Macro is hunched, raw with wounds. Behind them, the ruins of their gang. Some are dead, split from throat to tail, but most share Caligula's injury, legs broken and bared. They can't run, and Tiberius can only guess how long they've been here.  
"Well," Tiberius said, his voice low and even, "suppose the murdering sprees have to catch up with you sometime, eh? Can't galavant off into the sunset with a death here and there forever, could you?" He sounds calm, nearly, and this is surprising

Caligula shakes with the measure of his anger, or maybe it's just the pain. "You're a fool, Tiberius. He's here for you too."

It's then that he feels the predatory eyes on his back, finally feels watched. He turns to find a face as dark as his, inches away, unreadable, inscrutable as shadow.

_He cuffs that dark face, watches it shrink from his reach. Maybe he'll use claws this time. After all, what's a warning delivered without a seal of blood?_

_Blood, then, Caligula's turn, then, Drusilla's scream, then._

"Ahh," Tiberius manages. He's tackled, taken to the ground, and Caligula quails with a low growl. He's forgotten how to struggle, how to hit back, forgotten these things while failing to forget his sister. He's limp when he feels claws on his belly, the heart of his fear. It bleeds out as he does. Tiberius sees Caligula fall. Macro dies with a shriek. Those left alive are dispatched.

"Impressive." A lilting, female voice. She doesn't belong here with the blood and the corpses, Tiberius thinks, but it's getting harder to breathe and she seems less important with each passing second.

The dark tom is unerringly hostile. "What do you want?"

Tiberius stares at his brother's empty eyes and slack mouth. He's a shell, and Tiberius knows he's going to be one too.

"To offer you a deal."

That's his final moment; gasping on the damp concrete of the ambiguous alley of his youth, this stranger's soft words the last he ever hears.


	6. Transient

How long you leaving  
Well dad just don't expect me back this evening

-Runaway, Ed Sheeran

* * *

They try to hustle from the basement, but their attempt is mostly a failure. The kits they've picked have only ever encountered the stairs once before, and that was as juveniles, infants, carried by some careless guard. Among them, Khia's the only kit who knows how to tackle the stairs- and she's being herded back into the pen, lost in the plaintive cries of the kits around her. They don't understand, she thinks. In fact, many of them are probably upset because _they're_ stuck here, trapped beneath a house and its rot, while the others get to go outside. Get to taste the sunshine and the air, to flee Tillman's. They're heading for their supposed death, their so-called doom, and and all Khia can feel is sad and empty and faintly furious.

Her brother's there, her stoic brother with his warrior build. It's evident why they picked him, why they picked the brawny ones. The scarred cat and her companion are looking for fighters, fuel for this revolt, not intelligence, not integrity. All they'll need will be taught to them; how to crack a skull, to slice a throat, gut a belly.

The gate is shoved shut with a fairly ominous clink. In a way, it's metaphorical, only she's too mad to figure out what it symbolises. _This one's not for sale,_ Rhydderch said, and they'd accepted it so easily, moved on to their next option. Her blue eyes slid from her pelt like water, and Emory had barely even gazed at her. Dismissable, was what she was, and she doubted she'd even needed Ru's protection in the first place. There's no place in a war for a runt, no pedestal for the weak.

She manages to find Etch in the milling confusion. She's crying for her brothers, but her cry is one of a multitude, the names on her lips two of too many. She's fixated by the golden light spilling down the stairs, and the kits attempting to climb it. Several small dark figures have nearly reached the top, but it's hard to tell if they may be Ruari or Brine, or even Cariad. The adults have reached the brim of their patience, and have begun bodily carting the kits up the stairs, a laborious one at a time.

"Etch," she says, and the little grey she-kit looks at her. Her amber eyes are wide, and it's clear she's just as bewildered as the depleted masses around them. Khia's not much compared to her brothers and their loss. She's blood, but barely, more friend than sister.

"Where are they taking them? Why?" Etch asks. It reminds Khia that their penmates don't know who the strange duo are, or their cause, or the bloodshed it entails. She isn't sure if she should frighten Etch with the truth. She's just like Arrah; soft, docile, compliant. She'll probably end up another queen in another cage, mothering more kits that someone out there, apparently, needs. She's not destined for a fight that's not her own.

"There's going to be a rebellion," Khia tells her, giving in to the side of her that can't resist spilling secrets. "They're buying us to train. They want fighters against this PureClan they talk about."

Etch's eyes widen still. "They're going to _die_," she squeaks, horrified.

Khia just blinks at her. She hadn't considered that but, no, she doesn't think so. She has blind faith in her brother and it hasn't struck her that there are worse toms than the toms and guards here, that both liberty and lives can be taken at once, as one. She hadn't heard Tethys' cautionary tale and the slaughter it implied.

"Don't be silly," Khia reprimands. "They won't die. They'll all look out for each other, our brothers."

"They are going to die," Etch wails, louder, startling the kits around her, who begin to panic in earnest now.

Khia feels the onset of awkwardness. She's not good with emotions or ardent expression of them. Perhaps she ought to have learned by now, because their lives were not complacent ones. The day they'd been taken from Arrah, she'd sat in silence, eyes averted from the scene Etch and Brine were making. Ruari had offered small reassurances- _we'll be fine, she'll be fine, soon we'll have new brothers and sisters_\- but these endeavours hadn't garnered any improvements at all. Cariad had sat by her side, and Khia had always thought that was the way things would continue. They'd be together, regardless, until one or both of them died. Miss had mangled her plans, and it seemed one of them would be dying sooner than they'd realized.

"Well, not if we rescue them." And it's a crazy idea, a suicidal one perhaps, but Khia's going to try it. She's nothing without her brother, and she'll sit in the darkness and keep being nothing while he fights and dies. When he's dead she'll be less than nothing, just a shape in a cage spawning more shapes, forgetting that she ever dreamed of a life outside walls.

But Etch is happier now, beaming. She exclaims, "That's brilliant!" None of the whimpering kits around her share her escalating enthusiasm, or even register it. "We'll be free and they'll be free, and we'll be free together!"

The fawn kit eyes the guards through the wire mesh fence. "Keep your voice down," she warns, but it doesn't seem to matter because they're still nudging cargo up the steps. She watches one kit after another, wondering if they're Cariad, wondering if he already misses her. They eventually manage the Herculean task of getting the kits up the staircase, and the door swings shut- nearly, but not quite. It's always left ajar, because to the cats of the house, a closed door may as well be a locked one. On Khia's list of advantages, this is just another one.

Something approaches the pair, and Khia hisses at it. It only takes one nark to ruin her sketchy plan. Khia has a belligerent reputation, and it does her a few favours, but now it seems effectively useless. If it's not deterrent enough then she supposes nothing is.

"You're going to escape?" it asks; it's a tom-kit, Khia realizes. He comes into view, and while he's taller than her, he's hardly tall enough to loom. He's a faint cream in the gloom, and the most eminent thing about him is the sharp kink in the tail that hangs over his back. She's seen him before in passing; naturally, they've never spoken to each other.

"What's it to you?" Khia asks with an edge of hostility. _Please don't tell,_ she thinks_. I only want my brother._

"Do you want to come?" Etch chips in. Khia's tail twitches. There's a hundred things she wants to say to her cousin, and none of them are polite. _No, he doesn't want to come, he wants to tattle on us to the guards and get himself a reward. He's looking out for his stomach, not a way out._

When he says yes, yes he needs to come, Khia is hardly convinced. "Why?" she snaps.

"They took my brother, Thaddeus. Do you know him?" the cream tabby asks, peering at her hopefully.

"No," Khia answered shortly. He shrugs like it's no big deal- a sentiment she agrees with, in fact. "So who are you, anyway?"

"Oh," he says, as if she's expected to know his name already. "I'm Gideon. Kalligeneia and Oeric." It's something of a custom in the pits, to announce your heritage alongside your name. You can never tell if you have a surprise sibling, a relation no one informed you of. It's less helpful Khia, because more often than not she's never heard of these queens and she hates all of the toms, regardless.

"Etch," introduces the small dappled kit. "Arrah and Rhydderch. And that's Khia." She says her name because she knows Khia won't. They were raised together, after all, and it's clear to her that Khia wants nothing to do with this cheerful tom and his kinked tail.

"What, no parents?" Gideon asks. He's peering at her again, and it's irritating. It's additionally rankling to hear his callous addressal of her parents- or rather, the lack of them. He's probably just surprised to meet a cat that can't trace every inch of their lineage back to the Bayard, but it's a wound that's still raw for Khia.

"They were street royalty," Khia says snippily. "They were assassinated and my brother and I were lucky to escape with our lives. I expect we stand to inherit a large territory bordering the river."

Gideon just blinks, and she's not sure if he's eating up her lies or about to call her out on it. "Wow," he mumbles at last. "Tragic."

"I still have nightmares," she replies dryly, glancing at Etch. She's fighting to hide a smile.

"Anyway," Khia announces, "you're not going with us. It's an exclusive escapade for two. Find your own way out." Etch begins to whinge at this, but Khia silences her with a look. It may be dangerous, omitting this stranger- he might run to the guards and rat them out. That would be disastrous. But it would be more dangerous to let him accompany them, where he's just one more unknown among a multitude. He'd have no clue about life outside a basement, and she's not about to try to feed a mouth that won't contribute.

The cream tabby tom is silent as they move away. Khia feels his eyes on them as she teaches Etch, in a voice no louder than a whisper, how to climb the wire fence, one paw after another. It's a pastime that becomes easier with practice- Khia has mastered it now- but it's a luxury Etch can't afford. They must move fast if they hope to trail the group of kits and their keepers. But Etch adjusts to climbing with aplomb. She's small and lithe and practically a featherweight, and has already learnt to hook her claws around the wire for gripping. She's less confident when it comes to jumping down from the wooden frame that supports the fence, but Khia goes first and tells her she can aim for her if a soft landing is what she wants.

She misses entirely, if she was aiming for Khia, but she lands soundlessly. It becomes a fraction more difficult here; it's essential not to wake the guards, who have already resumed their interrupted naps. Khia scurries to the foot of the stairs, close to the ground, beckoning for Etch to follow. The grey she-kit isn't used to moving fast nor having such a wide space to run across, but she sticks close.

"They're so big," she whispers, eyeing the steps.

"Do what I do," Khia instructs, with a final glance at the guards. One is snoring already. It's probably Tubal, who's never been one to do anything quietly. She jumps onto the first step and keeps her tail out for balance. Etch follows with a little prompting. Khia admires her determination, and thinks maybe that her cousin also fears a life of nothing without her brothers. They've been condemned to a life at Tillman's, but it's a sentence neither wants. They jump from one step to the other, scaling them much quicker than the kits before them. Their scent is still lukewarm on the worn wood, and Khia hates to think what the impromptu conversation with Gideon has cost them.

The door is ajar, just as it always is, but Etch stops before it like it's some impossible obstacle. Rolling her eyes, Khia nudges it open with her nose. It's delicate, because the hinges are rusted, just like any in this damned house, and the last thing they want to to alert someone to their jailbreak attempt. There's no way, really, to pull it closed after they slip through, so they leave it as it is, sinking back into the fetid stink of the old house.

"Khia," Etch whispers, a pleading note in her voice. "Can we visit Arrah and say goodbye?"

She pauses. She doesn't want to break her cousin's heart by saying no, and she wants to see her adoptive mother too, to get the farewell that was foregone the day they were abruptly shoved into the basement.

"Okay," she acquiesces.

It's not difficult, to remember the way to the bathroom. This may be because Khia traverses it daily, to watch if not to speak. She doesn't feel it's her place, to talk to Arrah, when she's not really her mother, when her real children miss her so much. Etch trots at her heels, and she seems happy. If all she needed to recover from her earlier devastation was the promise of escape and Arrah, Khia would've offered it before all of the wailing started.

Guards don't frequent this area and from memory, none inhabit the chilled room where Arrah lives. The two sneak in nonetheless. All manner of cages line the walls. Some are authentic cages and crates, lined with slim metal or wooden bars. Others are boxes; one is a bin. One black she-cat nests inside what the guards dub _the shower_\- a medley of glass and dirty white tiles that protrudes from the wall. Arrah is lucky enough to have a real cage, filled with one blanket, several old towels and scraps of paper. It bodes well to carry the favour of Ru.

Arrah is on the ground level, and the space within her cage is murky and dark. The two kits stop before it, and Etch presses her face to the bars. Together they call her name. The response is immediate; Arrah surges forward to press licks to her daughter's head, whatever she can reach between the thin black metal lines the seperate them. Her affection is frantic. She turns to Khia as soon as Etch is sufficiently clean, and begins the same process.

"My babies," she whispers brokenly, but this is to herself, for herself. "How did you get up here?"

"We snuck up," Etch says proudly, and Khia regrets not bringing her here before.

Arrah beams at them, but she's staring past them, seeking her sons. "You're so clever," she praises. "Where are the others? Are they well?" The pretty queen frowns at the subdued look the two exchange. "What? What's happened?"

"They were sold," Khia explains, because Etch is clearly not about to shoulder this responsibility. "The three of them were sold with a lot of the others to these two cats who want to start a rebellion against _PureClan_." Though she says its name with a semblance of meaning, she still has no idea who these cats are. Arrah clearly does, because she gasps in horror in much the same fashion as Etch did.

"Oh, no. They're going to be killed!"

Khia shakes her head and wonders where her aunt and cousin have mislaid their faith. "They aren't," she insists stubbornly. "We're going to rescue them."

Her aunt melts against the bars, and Etch huddles against her, as close as she can get. "Be careful, girls. Those cats are dangerous. You stay away from them and make sure your brothers are safe."

"Of course," Etch replies, because this is obvious. They're going to rescue them, aren't they?

"And Khia," Arrah adds, green eyes serious. "You ought to know something."

She twitches her whiskers at her aunt, curious now.

"Your mother...and your father, I suppose, belong to PureClan. They're a part of this cultish group."

Khia gapes in disbelief. Her parents are some fearsome forest cats? Her brother is being sent to _kill their parents_? "That's not possible," she says. "They're not some terrible murderers."  
"I can't account for what they've done," Arrah whispers hollowly. "Just know Sablefrost loves you very much."

She doesn't acknowledge this. She's reeling, stunned. Her _mother_ is the cat Miss and her kind hate. Her _father_ is one of those they want to kill. What have they done? What kind of blood soaks her lineage? How is she supposed to rescue Cariad now- who is she even supposed to rescue, with the knowledge that soon a rebellion and its mastermind intend to take her parents' lives?

"I can see you're upset," Arrah soothes gently. "She gave you up because it was the only choice she had. We're from different worlds, but this is the one she knew you'd be safest in."

"Shut up!" Khia squeaks. Her voice is high-pitched in her shock and confusion. "It doesn't matter, anyway. We should be leaving now." She pokes Etch with a paws- it's not shaking, she's not shaking- and jerks her head towards the doorway.

"Bye Arrah," Etch says, touching noses with her mother through the cage bars. "We'll miss you."

"Goodbye and be safe," Arrah murmurs, eyes heavy and sad as she looks first at her daughter and then to Khia. "I know you'll be just fine." The tremor in her voice belies her words. If she doesn't believe it herself, how is Khia supposed to?

They trek towards the door. It's much harder to move now; she's somehow lethargic, suspended by the revelation of her parentage. The dirt and scraps on the floor don't help, but they shouldn't matter because Khia learned to ignore their presence a long time ago. It seems she's forgetting what she knew in the face of something much larger than she ever could've anticipated.

"We have to say goodbye to Rhydderch too," Khia tells her companion. The idea of leaving Rhydderch without a word of farewell seems impossible. He's the only father she's ever had, marauding murderers excluded. Perhaps he can shed some light on her mother, her father. Maybe he can tell her if what Arrah said was true.

"Okay," the grey kit agrees.

It doesn't take much to find him. Ru is always moving, always talking to someone in that loud silver voice of his. Right now, he's in the kitchen, discussing food supplies with Skah. It's an odd topic of discussion for the sleek, brutish white cat, and it's clearly boring; he sits, flicking his tail as Rhydderch one-sidedly debates the merits of kibble over meat. The she-kits slink into the shadow cast by the humming refrigerator, then progress to hiding beneath the old, stained oven.

"Fascinating, dear brother, but I do believe Skylla is due for an appointment. We'll pick up this conversation at a later date," Skah interrupts, getting to his snowy white paws, looking down at Rhydderch through mismatched eyes. Ru nods up at him before Skah sweeps from the room. Khia sees him rolling his brilliant blue-and-green eyes before he disappears from site.

"Ru!" Khia hisses from beneath the oven. His ears swivel, and he turns to look at her in bemusement as she wriggles out from underneath the appliance. Etch doesn't follow.

"Hey, Spots," he greets, ducking to rub his head against hers. "What are you doing out again?"

"I'm leaving," she tells him bluntly. He frowns down at her.

"Leaving what?" he asks.

"Tillman's. I need to rescue my brother, no thanks to you." He picks up on her sour tone immediately.

"You're doing no such thing," he retorts crisply. "I didn't save you from those vultures to let you go running into their clutches. You are staying here, and you will not dispute it."  
"What would Sablefrost say?" she taunts. She doesn't know the answer, only intends to antagonise this infuriating tom with her name. He snarls as her name reaches his ears.

"Your _mother_ would want you to be _safe_ and it's perfectly _safe_ right _here_," Rhydderch grinds out. "And I'm going to have a word with Arrah."

"I'm leaving and you can't stop me!" Khia shrills. "You don't own me. No one owns me. I'm not a part of Tillman's and I'm not the Bayard's property."

"You are so," Rhydderch snaps back. "You lost the right to be you the moment your mother gave you up to me! You are not leaving and you will not casually dismiss the requests your mother made to me to ensure your safety. I, for one, don't wish her fury upon me."

"I'm leaving," Khia repeats, and starts to head for the door, hoping Etch would follow. But Rhydderch's teeth are close around her scruff and he hauls her into the air, none too gently. He leaves the kitchen, and when he swings her into a stack of empty boxes, Khia can't be sure if it was entirely accidental. They enter a dark room, one she's never been in before. There are no stacks of anything in here, just a Twoleg nest and a rocking chair by the window. Someone sits in the rocking chair, an old man with a dirty white beard and liver spots on his bald head. His eyes are closed, and the chair moves to the slow rhythm of his breathing. She hasn't seen him before but instinctively she knows it's Tillman. Tillman, infamous and obscure, napping serenely in a wooden padded chair.

She can only stare at him.

Then Rhydderch carts her off to one side, dumping her in a small plastic cage with slits in its grey sides for breathing. The russet tom swings the door closed, locking her away like just another queen. He looks down at her, and she can see a mix of disappointment and rage in them. As if he expected her to live happily ever after in this prison with damp walls and its hundreds of hostages, both dead and alive.

"You are safe," he tells her slowly, steadily, "right _here_." And he disappears without a further word.

…

Khia's not completely reliant. Of course she knows there is a way out; of course she's tried it. It took several days of planning, and watching, and the desperation she couldn't forget. She didn't want to leave her brother behind, but he'd leave the basement one day; Khia knew all she'd ever amount to at the Bayard's would be being another queen in another cage. No one wants she-kits; no one decent.

One morning she left her brother with a sloppy lick on his cheek, and snuck up the stairs in the quiet stealthy way she has adopted. Khia skirted the guards and cages and toms alike, gave the snoring cat by the door a narrowed glance. Then she was through the flap, breathing in air, filled with smog as it was, that was ten times clearer than the dim gloom of the house. She took one step down a path, overgrown with weeds and sporting more cracks than a tabby had stripes.

She made it to the end of the path before she realized moving one inch further was a sudden impossibility.

_She couldn't do it_. She couldn't leave, and she hated herself for it. Hated that her bravado was nothing without her brother. Rhydderch found her ten minutes later, and took her back without a word.

Now, she thinks she'll never leave. She thinks her one attempt will be her only, her one chance her last. She'll sit rotting in this cage, hating Rhydderch and his guts, with Tillman's content snores as her only companion. She doesn't know where Etch is, hasn't got a clue. Rhydderch probably found her, took her back to where she belonged. Back where it's dark, a harsher blackness than the kind in this room. Here, it filters through a tattered curtain, and she's currently fixated on a patch of sun illuminating a small circle of carpet.

_I hate you, Ru_, she thinks_. I'm going to kill you_. But she won't, even if it is fault that Cariad's destined to die. Her brother's going to die because of that pigheaded, ignorant, entitled, conceited megalomaniac… She drifts away in her insults, calling Rhydderch first one obscenity and then another. When a shadow falls across her cage she jumps, certain it's Rhydderch back, certain he's suddenly developed some telepathic ability, certain he's very ticked off about a few offensive thoughts.

It's not Rhydderch. It's a small cheerful face, and a kinked tail hangs jauntily above it. His blue eyes are wide, and he's grinning at her.

"Gideon?" she gasps, then promptly remembers she's supposed to treat him with hostility and disdain. She doesn't need him screwing around in her life.

"The only and one!" he replies brightly, waving that warped tail at her. He's obscenely happy for a tom whose brother was just hauled away to an apparent certain doom.

"What are you doing here?" she asks suspiciously, convinced his appearance is somehow a trick. Ru is testing her, or the guards are.

"I followed you, and then I found Etch over there." He attempts to point at her cousin with his tail, but it just flops to one side. Khia gets the point anyway, and spots the dappled she-kit standing behind him. She's smiling softly, but there's something in her eyes, as if the episode with Rhydderch has scared her, just a little.

"Well, great. Can you two get me out?"

Gideon rolls his eyes at her. "_Can_ we?" he parrots. "Maybe if you say please."

She bares her teeth at the pale tabby. He is just so unlikeable. He smirks at her.

"Please," she spits, and he grins triumphantly.

"Stand back," he instructs, puffing out his chest importantly. Khia envies this Thaddeus, who must be so relieved right now to be free of the merry menace. First, Gideon attempts to hit the door. open. He cuffs the lock with first one paw and then both. Khia and Etch watch, unimpressed. Gideon _hmms_, as if the door's reluctance to open is somehow an interesting development. He then proceeds to bite the lock, as though he thinks gnawing on it will be somehow beneficial. His final idea seems a little bit better, but she's dubious it will work. He grips the small cage door with his claws and tugs, and then resorts to biting it once again. He manages to swing it open and recover his poise in one breath.  
"It wasn't locked," he tells her, still grinning.

She supposes gratitude is in order, so she mumbles a _thank you_ in his general direction. Those two small words require a lot of effort, and Khia just hopes she won't need to repeat the process any time soon in the immediate future.

"I figure we could try the window," Gideon tells her, nodding at the ragged curtains. They're moving with some kind of air current, as though the window behind it is open. She nods at him, because actually, this is pretty smart. This had better not go to his head, because his inflated chest was big enough already.

"Fine, sounds good," Khia says, wincing. _I have to thank him and agree with him in the space of one minute? Eugh._

Gideon beams at her. "After you, your Majesty."

* * *

As I sit here at 4:10 a.m., I'm simultaneously quite proud of myself and quite tired. This is the longest chapter in the Poison arc (Poison arc? I don't know. The series thing.) to date, even if it is only by like 20 words or something. I also pretty much wrote allll of it in one night. It's also the quickest I've updated in a very long time, considering the month-long gaps it normally takes me to write a fully functional chapter.

Also, eee, isn't Gideon so cute? His last line is a throwback to when Khia told him her parents were street royalty. He reminds me so much of a young, non-widower Strongclaw.

I'm not sure if any of you feel shocked and slightly betrayed by Ru's words and actions in the chapter, but remember, he does actually care about Khia and knows how dangerous it is out there, and how liable she is to be swept up into the revenge campaign. Poor sweet Arrah, all locked away and missing her babies.

I know I didn't leave an AN for the last chapter, which was the first time ever. I had a cold (still have it actually) and it was 3 a.m., so I didn't bother. Brighteyes, you got my reference! For those who don't know, Tiberius and Caligula were Roman emperors. Each were pretty horrible in their own way, I suppose, and Caligula was downright tyrannical. Drusilla was one of his sisters, who died. Caligula was accused of having incestual relation with all of his sisters actually. Pretty icky. Tiberius had a sex island. Enough said. Look him up at your own peril.

As for this dark and mysterious stranger, who is he? Is he of any consequence at all? What's Cariad doing now? Is Khia going to find him, and then what would they do? Who knows? I don't.

Anyway, I suppose it's time to wrap up this AN. I'd love to hear your reviews and your thoughts, and perhaps some answers to the above question. I apologise for any mistakes, which are wholeheartedly my own as this chapter is completely un-beta'd. I also wrote in the small hours of the morning, so who knows what typos I've made. I'll fix them eventually, I guess. Also kudos to anyone who noticed a passage in there was one of my drabbles.


	7. Osmosis

Come away little lost come away to the water,  
To the ones that are waiting only for you.  
Come away little lost come away to the water,  
Away from the life that you always knew.

-Come Away To The Water, Glen Hansard

* * *

The process of uprooting Cariad's life is a slow one. There's no feasible way to shepherd dozens of kits across town simultaneously, so they segment and splinter the group. They're taken in threes, fours, swept into the mouths of strangers before they're hurried down the street. It's two at a time, five at a time. The only cats Cariad knows are being taken away in portions, and he doesn't know where they're going. But that's not strictly true. Looking around, he can't see Khia. She stands below him, and he thinks perhaps that Ru will never let her leave.

He doubts she ever would've been picked; the kits have been judged on the merits of their muscles, and it doesn't matter if she's smart, if she can pick her way through the house with her eyes closed or tip toe with the best of them. She's not what's wanted, and Rhydderch must be relieved. He likes her, and he made a promise. A promise that may somehow extend to Cariad, but it seems the russet tom has forgotten this. They're too different, for him to like Cariad in the way he cares for Khia. He's too surly, too quiet, too complacent.

Cariad looks around, paws frozen to the wet cement beneath him. Ruari and Brine stand with him, huddled together in a mesh of brown and grey. He feels excluded somehow; they've at least got each other, in a familial sense. They're a pair- Ruari and Brine, despite missing their third- and they'll continue to be, long after they reach wherever it's intended they go. Cariad is a lonely singular half. Guess he'd better find a friend.

He continues to peruse the faces around him. It's odd. He feels he can barely recognise them here in the light, so used is he to squinting in the dark. Cariad has adjusted to features in the shadows, but the daylight is blinding, and everyone is brighter. He's still squinting, as though nothing has changed. Sure, he dreams in colour, but it's a different kind. It's not harsh, and it doesn't hurt his eyes.

He knows he'll adjust, because there was a time where he lived upstairs, and there was light enough.

Around him, kits sit in various states of shock. Some seem fine- they're out, and alive, and for them that's enough. He knows some- like Cillín, a tom he's tussled with on occasion, and Iiro, possibly one of the loudest kits to ever grace the basement. Unlike most of the group, he's being loud right now, small voice echoing down the empty street. The adults present- four or five- watch him, but none make a move to quiet him. They look alienated, if anything, because it's more likely than not their job description is usually a little more thrilling than kitsitting.

Iiro is tumbling with a bright ginger tom; they seem as energetic as each other, and neither's the worse for wear after their sudden eviction. Cariad senses immediately that they'll be the cocky, arrogant clique, brawn to boot. Maybe he ought to introduce himself. Maybe later. They're flashing their claws now, tiny even as they are. Cariad may be their size, but he doesn't mix with violent tendencies. This does not make him a coward, he is certain.

Another pair catches his eyes; they're vaguely familiar, for a reason unknown. Sure, he must've seen them in the pen sometime, fleetingly, but they feel fresher in his memory. One is pale grey, and one is a sandy golden, a small she-cat with a ruffled pelt and narrow green eyes. He pairs her with the tiny scabbing cut on his cheek, a low and venomous uttering of _oaf_. Of course. She's the small abrasive creature he knocked over, not even an hour ago. Cariad thinks she might truly hate him; she seems the type, that harsh acerbic type. Though he doesn't know her name, he knows her, in an inane instinctual way.

Cariad turns back to his cousins. "Wonder where we're going," he says, by way of conversation starter.

"Dunno," says Ruari. "Does it matter?"

"Sure it matters," Brine argues. "Do you want to go _back_? Anywhere is better than here."

Cariad thinks not. The basement's a hovel, a pit, a hell, but he'll never be as safe as when he was safely secluded between its four dank walls. Khia forewarned him; he knows that a revolution is intended by the very cats who possess him. Who own him. He's a pawn, and a cheap one. He understands that much, thanks to his sister. He thinks she'd much rather be where he is.

"Are you guys excited?" Cariad asks diplomatically. He hardly wants a rift, however menial, between his two anchors to his old life, a life that's still warm and twitching and within an inch of death.

"Nah," says Ruari. " I want to say goodbye to Arrah. I want Etch to come with us." They baby their sister, and they can hardly coddle Cariad.

His brother looks genuinely upset at the mentions of the family they've been herded from. Distantly, Cariad registers the removal of Iiro and his boisterous ginger friend from their group, along with several others. They're hustled away.

He shrugs in an attempt of placation. "Maybe they'll join us," he suggests. This earns him twin glares; evidently his cousins place no faith in his words. He doesn't believe it himself. There's no way Khia will be joining him, pinned under Ru's watchful eye. The one way out of the house is consistently guarded, warded. It's watched, day after day, with eyes of amber, green, gold. Khia's sneaky, Cariad knows this, but she's not invisible. And that's not even counting the burden of their smallest cousin.

"That's ridiculous," a small contemptuous voice asserts behind him. Cariad turns around to see the golden kit standing behind him, her grey friend hovering at her shoulder.

"Az, please," he says beseechingly, but she ignores him. He's larger than she is, and could probably bodily pull her away from this undeniably unpleasant encounter, but he seems a little apprehensive of his companion. Cariad doesn't doubt it's for a good reason.

"Yeah?" he snaps back, by way of retort. Words were never his forte, but this might just be a new low. He'll know he has a problem if he starts replying to all insults with one word that sounds almost acquiescing. _Hey, could you move your fat tail any slower? Yeah. You stupid? Yeah. You call that shuffle a battle move? Yeah?_ Honestly, this is how he sees his induction to his new home; a whole barrage of insults and scorn, just waiting to push him over. No one will have his back because the only cat he'd ever trust with it is going to be locked in a basement for the rest of her life.

"That place is in lockdown," Az- he knows this must be short for something, but he hasn't figured it out yet- replies snootily, ignoring the fact they've just sauntered out of there without so much as an eye twitch. Admittedly, they no longer belonged to the Bayard, but that didn't matter because lockdown was _locked down_.

"You don't know my sister," Caraid growls, a kind of safety statement. He knows Az is in no position to make judgement calls on a kit she's never met.

The grey kit whines, "Azazel," and she shoots him a sour look.

"Fine. Just don't expect to see your sister any time soon. We both know how that house works." Roughly nudging her friend's shoulder with her own, she turns. Caraid notices several adult cats return. He can't work out if they've been bought, like him, or if they're serving the duo out of the goodness of their own hearts, the fire in their own bellies. It's probably the latter. Street cats hold grudges, or so he's heard, and PureClan must be positively swimming in them.

Azazel is taken with the next group. She's meek, suddenly, swinging in the mouth of some grizzled tabby she-cat. Caraid watches her leave. He watches a kind of timidness he didn't expect to see in such a cat, so when they take him, he isn't prepared.

He's swept from the ground with dizzying speed, and teeth gripping his scruff harder than strictly necessary. Cariad goes limp- it's instinctual, but it's not like he could fight anyway. Instead, he takes his fight within, and quashes the voice inside him that tells him every step taken is just another splinter driven between him and memory of his sister.

* * *

And so he's back in the dark. His moment in the sun and smog has come to an end, and here he is, surrounded by the shadows again and even lonelier than ever. They haven't locked him away to rot on his own, of course, but he doesn't know these cats. They smell like home, but that's as far as it stretches. He thinks one might be the kit from before, Iiro's friend. They eye each other in the darkness.

"Hi," says Iiro's friend. "Call me Thad. This is Elettra." He gestures to the sorrel she-kit beside him, who is resolutely trying to clean saliva from the back of her neck. She pauses to nod at him, but it's clear some stranger's spit warrants more attention than he does.

"Caraid," he says in return, a little uneasily. He wasn't expecting to make any friends. There's another pair of cats, but they huddle together and don't speak a word.

Thad bounces on his paws, but he's looking a little lost for words. At last, he says, "So, this is exciting, right?"

"My sister thinks we've been bought for a rebellion." _No, this is not exciting, it's a predictable death._

"Your sister is the one that sneaks out, right? I've seen her." Thad nods sagely. "She here with us?"

Caraid's throat closes over. He wishes. He can't wish enough. "No, she got left behind." How many times will he admit this to himself? He can't repress his hope, however, that Khia will find her way out. She's small and smart, and her only anchor to Tillman's has been set adrift. Even if stupid Azazel doesn't think so- but whatever she thinks doesn't matter, because she doesn't know Khia at all.

Thad blinks at him. "Shame. I got someone left behind too."

It's more than a shame; it's the worst thing that has ever happened to him in his life. But he can't expect this tom, who has his friends and his surety, to understand. Someone else will slip into the gap beside him, and before he's murdered by PureClan, perhaps he won't even remember that someone at all.

The door above them, just a metal hatch, is slid open. Caraid flattens his ears as the metal scrapes over concrete, the sound harsh and raw. Small objects are dropped to the floor; some kibble; a mouse; a blackbird. A face looms over the empty space left by the grate; it's the tabby tom who picked him for his doom. "Dinner's up," he calls. "You'll be briefed tomorrow, and then your training will start." With a clang, the door is shoved back into place, and Caraid scrapes together a mouthful of a meal. It's no better than he expected, and no worse than what he's already had.

* * *

**okay. it's here. yes, it's late. sorry. cariad as a pov is just so painful to write, i hope it doesn't read like it though. sorry it's taken so long. on the otherhand i wrote a human au where strong died. probably from alcohol poisoning. next up is i don't have a clue, that's how long it's been. next update might be a while, and exams are just around the corner. but you never know, the crippling weight of everything i have to do might motivate me to write ttatt. typical.**


	8. Incommodious

Somehow, he cons Cloudpaw into a tussle. It's obvious Sleetclaw won't be adequate for his mentoring, and who better to teach him than the deputy's apprentice? It's as though Iceface is teaching him through a kind of medium. It's as close as he can get. Oakpaw knows it doesn't take much to ascend into the warrior ranks; first, you need to use your nose, and if you can't do that, then you've no business in being a cat. The second task is the easiest fight of any Clan cat's life. He's heard the hard part is cleaning blood from fur afterwards, and wondering if you've now got mange. Oakpaw is confident he could achieve that even now. Nothing is easier to beat than something already broken.

Yet he sees Strongclaw, and this shakes his confidence. Strongclaw is dangerous, in his brokenness, erratic sharp edges and a madness to his grief. Oakpaw fears being broken, as he flees through the forest, as he wrestles Cloudpaw to the ground. PureClan's philosophy has never sounded so agreeable. Love is not merely a weakness; it's a weapon, a tool, a torture. He can't help but wonder, if his mother were alive, would she still love the pitiable thing in the meadow?

Oakpaw tolerates the kind of pain that can be seen; scratches, grazes, scrapes. Morningstar has instituted a strict 'claws out' policy, and as of late, Oakpaw finds himself agreeing with everything she does. Learning through experience is all he can do, he supposes, and after all, there will never be anything as dangerous as a PureClan warrior. Cloudpaw is nowhere ready to take his vows, but he learns a lot at Iceface's heels. More the Oakpaw can dream of learning with his own dud mentor.

Still, Cloudpaw is a challenge. For now, Oakpaw is content to chalk it up to a superior education and the fact that his mother, Meadowmist, is apparently handy with her claws. Oakpaw is fighting with a medley of instinct and half-learned moves . It's one thing to wrestle as a kit, but reality requires more strength and a superseding skill. At least it's just them in the training arena, scuffling in the dirt and pretending it's grander than it really is.

They're both panting when they hit the dirt simultaneously. They're grinning, though, the kind of exhausted smile only an extensive workout can produce. Fighting is a camaraderie, perhaps the only thing two cats can really bond over in PureClan. It suits Oakpaw just fine.

"That last move was so cool," Cloudpaw says, and Oakpaw puffs up with pride. There's something about praise from someone older, something Oakpaw likes, something he could get used to. "Show me again," the other apprentice demands.

So he does, kicking out at the fluffy tom's belly when he closes in, pins him down. Knocks him away with a power he revels in, with a move that's less structured, more instinctual. Cloudpaw lands breathless, but he's still grinning anyway.

"Like that?" Oakpaw asks, but he's smug anyway. That move is already a perfect kind of art, but he won't admit he discovered it five minutes ago, thrashing in an attempt to escape Cloudpaw's grasp.

The spell is broken when Iceface enters the arena, perpetual scowl perhaps a touch more bitter than normal. Oakpaw thinks this is probably due to his apprentice fraternising with the less desirable, both bad history and bad blood. "Cloudpaw," the deputy snaps. "Why aren't you at camp? You know the assessments are this afternoon. You ought to be learning from this opportunity."

Cloudpaw shrinks away from his mentor's glare, looking, despite all his fur, very small. "No," he says. "Guess I forgot."

Iceface tsks, impatiently, tail a slow pendulum behind him. "Better get to it, then," in a tone indicating Cloudpaw should do nothing else if he hoped to survive the moon. Cloudpaw nodded and hurried from the clearing. And sure, Oakpaw guessed he didn't really have anything against the deputy, but he wasn't in the mood to linger with him and his cold creepy eyes. He followed Cloudpaw into the forest, wishing someone had told him about this assessment. He's only two days into his apprenticeship, but still, he could stand to pick up a few advanced tips. He's yet to see a real Tainted anyway. His mother doesn't count, in his eyes; Strongclaw is not poisoned, but merely broken.

It's strangely silent, as they near camp. Oakpaw expected more noise; perhaps the babble of crowd anticipating a good murder or two. It's quiet until there's a shriek, and Oakpaw flinches as a bird streaks into the air above him, shrilling a warning that the PureClan's living spectacle is too late to heed. The pair finally break through the undergrowth and find PureClan assembled in a ring, eyes hungry and dark. Oakpaw's never seen the Clan so organised, not even in assemblies, where everyone sits in a straight-backed impatience until they can leave. But this is an entertainment requiring management; the crowd is partially involved, in way, and it's a cruel fuel for their bloodlust.

Oakpaw spots his sister, sitting blankly by Fawnpaw. He can't see into the ring, yet, but there's another shriek and he's desperate to see what's going on. He ditches Cloudpaw and scurries over to his sister, squeezing in beside her. Flutterpaw is in the arena, looking more hesitant than bloodthirsty, and she looks just as terrified as her opponent. Still, the white on her chest is hidden with gore, and her claws gleam wicked in the sunlight. The Tainted she faces is a small black she-cat, eyes a filmy shade of yellow. Her spine is a ragged clump of slick fur, and she quivers against the ground.

Oakpaw doesn't understand. She must know she's going to die; there's no point shaking about it. He focuses on Flutterpaw again, and her sister, gold and red, sitting in the crowd, a look of satisfaction on her face. Flutterpaw makes a quick advance and jabs the she-cat's ribs; Oakpaw snorts, because this is a poke, not a battle-move. Were this a real cat, Flutterpaw would already be dead. But she persists with her butterfly taps, and she cuts, here, cuts there. Oakpaw knows she's not trying to be vicious, but her war of attrition is pointless. It just hurts the Tainted more than it would've if Flutterpaw had ended it immediately.

He's sure he can't shout this out, to shove some sense through her ears, so he settles for hoping one of her pokes breaks the Tainted's delicate neck. Oakpaw darts a glance at Morningstar, who looks distinctly unimpressed. He doesn't doubt she could wipe out half the crowd in a fraction of the time the pale tabby has taken. It takes a while before Flutterpaw's claws skid west, and the Tainted looks down to find her neck is in ragged ribbons. The apprentice stands there, hunched and awkward, as her opponent begins choking to death.

Finally, Morningstar announces, "Next," when the black cat slumps to the ground; not quite dead, but close enough. Flutterpaw sits beside her sister with hollow eyes and bloodstains on her paws. Oakpaw's attention has already abandoned her; Nightpaw has entered the ring, a black-and-white tom who already looks more promising than his predecessor.

The cat that follows him is all ribs, a tangle of bones beneath a thin grey pelt. Maybe once it would've put up a real fight, but not now, not hollow and starved. Oakpaw can't tell if it's a she-cat or a tom. But he watches hungrily, because bloodshed is new, interesting, what he will one day master.

Morningstar flicks her tail and Nightpaw tackles the Tainted. He knocks him to the ground, and there's a snap of something, but it's not its neck. The Tainted pushes back, but it's a somatic strength- any will this cat held was broken in that darkness, and it has failed to sweep up the pieces again.

The pair tussle. Nightpaw is eager not to end it too quick- he wants to show off, to earn himself a name and reputation. Oakpaw can respect this. Skills were meant to be shown, after all. Here, however, there is no opportunity for flair, for the black-and-white tom to show his aptitude for murder. He ends it with a scream and a gurgle, teeth buried in the grey cat's throat. The Tainted is discarded, quite dead, but its eyes are no more empty than they were before.

All attention rests upon Morningstar, who uncurls and stretches. She looks bored; she's seen such carnage, and this pathetic affair has only served to put her to sleep.

"May the apprentices Goldpaw, Flutterpaw, Scarpaw and Nightpaw step forwards," she intones. It's a speech she delivered too many times, but it excites Oakpaw. He wants this; when he dreams, it's of this moment, when he receives his name and glory. Among the littermates, the only one looking truly enthused is Scarpaw, still covered in blood.

"We have a mandate laid down with the bones of those who strode before us. These apprentices have today demonstrated their worthiness to uphold these old laws. Do you promise to uphold and protect the warrior code, and to help protect PureClan from the invasion of the poison formerly known as love?" She directs her lazy attention to the cats in front of her. The novelty of this ceremony, so coveted in youth, has long since abandoned her, and it shows in her blank eyes, her apathetic voice.

There's a small chorus of assent, and now Morningstar looks vaguely thoughtful, as if she's trying to remember what comes next.

"Flutterpaw," she calls. The pale she-cat shivers a little- she doesn't look at the leader, but rather, at the ground below her feet.

"Under the eyes of StarClan I present you with your warrior name. The Clan honors your quest to evade the poison. You shall be known now as Flutterwing."

Oakpaw pauses to wonder what his name will be. Nightpaw is promptly renamed as Nightwhisker, and Scarpaw as Scarpelt- befitting, even now- but he dismisses them. They're plain names, the kind everyone dreads. He decides he likes _Oakstorm._ It's dramatic.

"-be known as Goldpool," Morningstar finishes, looking unashamedly relieved. She leaps from the hill without a further word of dismissal, and the Clan drifts apart. Impulsively, Oakpaw hurries after her. The warrior ceremony has reminded him of something, but Morningstar is already leaving camp, a flicker of bronze in the undergrowth. He bounds after her, and he's already forgotten the cats in the center of camp, the taste of their new names a little bitter in their mouths.

"Morningstar!" he shouts. "Morningstar!" He's in the fringe of the forest when she hears him, and turns with face him with a disgruntled grimace.

"_What_ do you want, poppet?" she asks.

Oakpaw perks up. "I wanted to swap mentors, now that there's been the warrior ceremony and all that. Like, Gorsespots, or something."

She narrows her eyes at him. "What's wrong with the one you've got?"

Oakpaw thinks the answer is fairly obvious. Sleetclaw is hardly a rervered warrior; in fact, he's hardly a warrior at all. "He's not good enough."

Morningstar, for a moment, looks incredulous. "You, the son of sin, built from the very thing we hope to break down, thinking you deserve something? That this Clan owes you?" When she laughs, he begins to feel he has made a mistake. "Don't delude yourself. You're lucky the Clan has extended its generosity to you, but even now, it may be waning. We owe you nothing. You should not exist."

Oakpaw doesn't follow her when she leaves. Can't she see he just wants to _learn_? It makes no sense to him, that his parentage has anything to do with him now. They're dead, the pair of them, and as far as PureClan is concerned, that's atonement at its finest. He thinks of Strongclaw saying, "_You have no rights at all." _It's only now that he thinks this may be true.

He wanders, sulky and brooding, through the forest. It will be nightfall soon, but that's not his concern. He's never had an official tour, but he can stumble over paths in the darkness. Surely, Morningstar must think it's what he _deserves_. He's drawn to the sluggish hum of water; right now, the mercurial blackness in its depth appeals to him. But he's not its only visitor.

He nearly steps on her, before he sees her, rent and ragged, on the forest floor. It's Flutterwing's tormented black Tainted, twitching with small, shallow breaths. She's not quite dead, but close, and Oakpaw wonders how she got here. She meets his gaze, and his fur prickles. Up close, death looks inglorious. Oakpaw hears something splash. Looking up, he sees a body weaving its way through the currents of the river, leaving red ribbons in its wake. A warrior stares after it, another corpse at their paws, and Oakpaw realizes this is the solemn send-off of the Tainted, the disposal of the scraps left behind by the new warriors.

Oakpaw backs away, and then runs away, but as dusk smothers the forest, he wonders if she died drowning.

* * *

wow, a chapter.

for those of you wondering what's going on right now: I'm trying not to make it too confusing, but for both Emberpaw and Oakpaw, nothing too much is going on now, just trivial Clan stuff. As for Khia, she's escaped Tillman's with her cousin and adorable little Gideon to find her brother. Cariad is with the rebels, who are not focusing on too much right now. They're pretty preoccupied with training up the new recruits. As for every fifth chapter, it will be entirely random, and probably won't impact too heavily on the plot, but will offer little insights and clues. It's not too confusing, I hope, but it may help to scan over the previous chapters if you're a little lost. Not sure how frequent the updates will be. I'm nearly on study leave, so we'll see how appropriately I manage my time

sorry for the wait, sorry for the terrible quality of my uninspired writing, reviews are wonderful, see you next time.


	9. Espionage

**Recap:**

**Emberpaw becomes Morningstar's apprentice and is then told to spy for her. Oakpaw of course is as unknowledgeable as ever and becomes envious. Emberpaw discovers Iceface talking with a strange city cat but decides not to tell Morningstar.**

* * *

She is not a fighter, a brawler. She rarely deigns to use her claws, but she knows what she is, and she knows she is competent; good, even. Recommendable, reliable, possessing a talent rarely harnessed in PureClan. Emberpaw is a spy.

She knows this, and her leader knows this, but she remains ambiguous in every aspect of Clan life. It's her annonymity that allows her to blend in so well. Morningstar, however, is rarely pleased by her trivial findings. The golden leader is not interested in giggling apprentices, the crass language Meadowmist uses when she botches a hunt, Sparkfool's favourite spots to gather marigold.

"Boring," she drawls, in that way of hers that is both condescending and terrifying; she is a cat who recquires constant entertainment, and her boredom can so quickly turn to lethality. "Get me something _good_."

It is this comment, in one of their mock mentor-apprentice sessions, that has now brought her to the forest, hunting scandal and treachery. Emberpaw isn't sure what she'll find. She's stumbled upon something akin to treachery before, when she saw Iceface with his stranger. She keeps queit about it, for reasons she's not sure she understands. It would be easy to dob him in, but then what? She gets some credibility as a spy? They get a new deputy? In her head, it's not quite as simple as it could be. Emperpaw doesn't like the tom, but she continues to watch him, though for now his activities remain nondescript, verging on bland. So she ignores him today.

If Morningstar wants excitement, Emberpaw doubts Iceface will be any kind of candidate.

She sees her brother, tussling in the arena. He's already grown bigger than Burrpaw, today's unlucky opponent. Their mentors watch impassively on the sidelines. Emperpaw knows Oakpaw is more than displeased with his appointed mentor, Sleetclaw. He's a weedy looking tom, thin, meek. He's jealous of her, she knows, but maybe if he spent all day perched in trees, he'd think differently. They no longer sleep in the same nest. They haven't talked for a moon. This pattern is set to continue.

She moves on from the training arena, where her brother no doubt spends most of his time. Why hunt when you can fight, right? She's a better hunter than she is a fighter. It's a given when she spends most of her time stalking, silent and watching. Morningstar hardly bothers to train her; she promises that the best of it is still to come, when she's truly proven herself. Emberpaw feels she might be waiting a while.

She comes across Nettlecloud next, her absent adoptive mother, who will never come within an inch of being better than the real thing. The fawn she-cat looks haggard, hounded, glancing over her shoulder with paranoid frequency. Emberpaw can guess what haunts her; the tom she never asked for, the one she never wanted. Peppermask is not an easy tom to deal with, when he's around. He's ambitious, and a little abusive (so she's heard). And she's seen things, below the trees; arguments, spats. Nothing she'd gossip about- she's no longer a fickle kit. She's learned to keep her mouth shut, although this new skill is too late to help her mother.

She decides to follow Nettlecloud. She has no desire to see her uncle's leer today (not that this particular urge presses her often).

_Scandal_, she thinks furiously to herself, leaping from one branch to another with the easy grace of practice. _Drama. Theatrics. 'Good'._ Something to rival that illicit meeting. She fears nothing she can dig up will be enough. Maybe she ought to tell Morningstar. That can at least save her skin, because she's certain if her usefulness isn't soon proved, she will be permanently demoted. Permanent, in a way that will see her reunited with her departed mother. Morningstar just exudes that air of wastefulness.

The next few cats who cross below her do not interest her. One is her brother's friend, that absurdly fluffy tom. The fourth, however, catches her interest. For an elder, he's fairly fit and robust. It's rare to see them out of the camp. It's hard to drag them for the dusty shadows in their den. And though it is unlikely that Waterstripe will lead her to the scandal she so wants to find, she follows him. He may be a tidbit to tide Morningstar over until she discovers the real event. Emberpaw is so desperate for anything she's beginning to wonder if elders are even _allowed_ out of camp.

He keeps up a good pace, but it's nothing Emberpaw can't match. He's probably soft with his old age, his lack of use. She delights in her speed as she darts through the canopy. Emberpaw remembers the first time she tried climbing, when she was timid and hesitant and very, very careful. She has grown, and nothing is as big as it used to be, although she will never reach the hulking size of Oakpaw. That's something she can be content with.

Waterstripe begins to head to the river. That much is made clear by its soft distinct rushing noise, filtering through the trees even metres away. Emberpaw doesn't frequent the river much. To her, nothing exciting ever seems to happen on his banks. She knows very little of its history, the betrayal it has borne witness to, the corpses it has carried. As far as Emberpaw is concerned, Waterstripe just got thirsty. She's about to abandon the chase, thinking it fruitless, when Waterstripe emerges from the trees and scans the water. A few feet away, Iceface sits as though waiting.

Emberpaw finds a good spot between the two of them, where she hopes she's hidden. It's not like anyone bothers to look up, anyway. She knows it will just be her lucky day when someone does.

"It's clear," Waterstripe says, forgoing any greeting. "She remains in camp talking to Strongclaw."

Iceface looks marginally relieved. "Did you come across anyone on your way here?"

"No," the elder answers, but oh, how little he knows. Emberpaw doesn't smile; she' s beyond used to the absence of her acknowledgement."

"Good. That's what I was thinking, when I planned the patrols. They ought to arrive soon, so keep watch for a while." Both toms turn to watch the opposite bank, and Emberpaw is intrigued. Perhaps that foreign she-cat will make a reappearance. The silence between them is uneasy, and she thinks she has found an incident that tops her first attempt at spying for the leader. Unsure where to look, she keeps her gaze pinned on the deputy, trying to read him. Gone is that constant scowl, and in its place is an anxiety she's never seen him wear before.

She's still watching him when they appear on the other side. When his eyes widen and he stands, she glances up to see she has missed the entrance of three and a half unfamilar faces, who are now staring at them from across the river. Kenna only counts as half, considering Emberpaw has already, indirectly, met her. One is a ginger tom, one a grey tabby, and the other has a pelt as black as Kenna's. They're mostly a scrawny bunch, wiry and scared, and Emberpaw catches a faint tang of their bitter scent.

"Ice," Kenna calls across the river. "Are you ready?" It's so strange to Emberpaw, to hear the first part of his name uncoupled of the last. It's a warning she doesn't heed.

Iceface calls back, "Yes," before turning to Waterstripe, who has gone practically unnoticed in this short exchange. He dips his head, a respectful gesture reserved for senior warriors and accomplished cats. Waterstripe replies in kind, before the deputy steps towards the river. He shivers, and Emberpaw sees what he is about to do.

He plunges into the river suddenly, abandoning his regality. He surfaces with his fur plastered against his skin, pelt now a dark and stormy grey running with dirty river water. He swims against the current; she notes he has picked a good time to flee PureClan, with the river small and diminished by the lack of rain. He reaches the other side easily and pulls himself out, bearing a striking resemblance to a drowned rat. With distaste, Iceface shakes the water from his slick fur.

Kenna and the others are ready to greet him. With her tail, she points at first to the grey she-cat, and then the black tom. "This is Britta, and this is Nada. Of course, you've already meet Feliks before. We have an encampment half a day away, with a dozen or so cats. When we return we will be ready to depart back to the city, and you will oversee the training of our new recruitments."

Iceface just nods, as if he's been expecting all of this. Waterstripe looks a little forlorn as they begin to disappear back into the trees. Iceface is the last to leave, and the water dripping from his pelt is a farewell. Slowly, now acting properly elderly, Waterstripe stands and makes his way back into the forest. Emberpaw, of course, is already gone. She has _scandal_. She has _drama._ She has _treachery_. What else could Morningstar want?

…

She flies across camp, passing by too quickly to catch the disgruntled glares of snobby warriors. She doesn't pause to call out before entering the leader's den, but skids to a stop when she sees Strongclaw sitting hunched before his mother.

"-and you shall clean up before the formal announcement. It's long overdue, and if you won't groom yourself, I will have several warriors repeatedly dump you into the river until you shine like the day you were unfortunately born. Am I understood?" Her gaze flits over Emberpaw, breathless and relieved, before returning to the cream-and-tabby tom in front of her.

"Thoroughly," Strongclaw replies acerbically. "Can I go now?"

Resigned, Morningstar sighs. "Of course, off you go, to steal more poppy seeds from the medicine den, my drunkard of a son."

He turns around, nearly bumping into Emberpaw on his way out. Their eyes meet; his are a tired, cloudy blue, though they brighten just a little bit when they see her. She looks away first.

"Good morning, Emberpaw. I trust you have a _good_ reason for interrupting my son's daily lecture?"

"Oh yes," she replies, bouncing on her paws, her mock father's sad eyes forgotten, for now. "Very good."

Morningstar says nothing else, but looks gratifyingly impatient.

"It's Iceface. He left with a bunch of city cats, just now. Waterstripe helped him get away."

Morningstar looks pleased; a smirk forms on her muzzle, and she seems far from surprised. "Knew it," she says. "Knew I had a dirty mole in the Clan. Did they say anything?"

"They have an encampment half a day away, and as soon as they get back they're returning to the city. Iceface is supposed to help train 'recruits.'"

Morningstar gnashes her teeth in a way that looks decidedly gleeful. "Where did that little rat escape from? The gorge? The meadow?"

"The river," Emberpaw answers, fairly confident she's finally proven herself.

"And what of Waterstripe? Did he go too?"

Emberpaw manages to get out, "No, he's still-" before Morningstar is gone from her den. Emberpaw springs to her paws and follows- her leader is just a golden streak as she disappears into the forest. The apprentice sits down and waits, watching the confusion of the cats in camp. Morningstar doesn't summon that kind of speed often, but when she does...

She returns minutes later, trotting serenly behind Waterstripe, who is trying to mask his abject mortification. Does he know he's been betrayed?

"May all those old enough to unsheathe their claws gather beneath the Speaking Hill for a _very special meeting_,_" _she cries. Waterstripe tries to blend into the crowd as the Clan assembles. It takes a further few minutes for those outside of camp to return, and there is an air of bemusement amongst PureClan. There was no scheduled meeting today.

Morningstar begins by planting a wide-eyed look of betrayal and sadness on her face. "Today," she announces, "I was shocked to discover my very own deputy has become a pawn of the hideous thing we endeavour to choke from this world. He has left us to fornicate with the Tainted. Have no fear, my Clan. We will hunt him and the siren-call of the poison down. First, we must address a more immediate problem. Form a ring, please."

Murmurs sweep through the crowd as they obey. What could be more immediate than the betrayal of their deputy? Morningstar strides into the centre of the circle, resplendent in the afternoon light. Under the attention of the Clan, and the promise of what is to come, the golden queen is radiant. Waterstripe, however, wilts as Emberpaw watches him. "I need a volunteer, please," Morningstar croons. "You there."

She nods at Waterstripe, who now looks as weak and as feeble as an elder should. He gets to his to paws, to Morningstar's delight.

"Did you see anything this morning, as that traitor of a deputy fled us? Anything noteworthy?"

Waterstripe shakes his head. He must see it coming, surely.

The Clan strains to hear the leader's next word, small and harsh as it drops from her lips. "_Liar._" Morningstar moves in a breathtaking blur, knocking the tom from his paws. He struggles, but his efforts are nothing to the lioness leader. He will be the first cat Emberpaw knows, the first cat that is no stranger, no city creature or rogue, that she will see die. For many of the Clan, it will be the most intimate execuetion they've ever witnessed. It is not often the many-headed snake turns on itself, and few occasions are so public.

"Waterstripe is not being truthful with us. It was he who aided the escape of the coward, and now, he has attempted to lie to us."

Emberpaw is silent, and so is most of PureClan. Execuetions are loud, noisy affairs, raucous and rowdy; not this one, not when it has become so personal.

Morningstar sneers down at the tom she has trapped between her claws. "This is just protocol, deary," she assures him, and then she guts him, throat to tail. Gold and red are a splendid mix.

* * *

so sorry about this. i was on holiday for two weeks and then when i came back my internet got cut off. i had this chapter written up for ages but couldn't post it or anything. still don't have internet or anything so this has been posted from school. i've been wanting to post it for ages. sorry for the long time in between updates it is not my fault this time


	10. Penitence

Recap: Rhydderch is pronounced Ru-therch. Don't worry, I say Rhydderch in my head too.

Previously, Caraid was taken away and his sister Khia was desperate to follow him. She made the mistake of telling Ru, and he locked her away to keep her safe. BUT...

_A loser hides behind a mask of my disguise_

_And who I am today is worse than other times_

_-Message Man, Twenty One Pilots_

* * *

He feels bad for what he's done, truly. To be honest, the list of things he feels bad about is a long one, but this latest act has him feeling truly guilty. She tried to confide in him, to farewell him. Indeed, that tiny scrap of fur trusted him, though she barely knew him, the tom that was very much in most ways his father's son. He was sure it was never meant to last, but it was a shame, to break it so soon

Rhydderch had had no choice.

But that look, in those green eyes... It plagues him all day. Khia must be lonely, in that cage, with only Tillamn's gentle breathy snores as a mockery of company. In the stuffy old house, the guilt only builds and builds, layers of it stacked upon boxes of human junk. He must escape- this is a thought that comes to him ironically, although he does not yet know it. Rhydderch has an easy time getting outside. There's not a guard in the house that doesn't know him, or fear him. This fear is entirely without merit; he could be worse. He could be, for instance, Skah. The two are void of any relations, and it shows in their temperment.

The guard by the door gives him a wide-eyed stare as he passes. It's the small silver one, who, for some reason, either idolises him or fears him immensely. Rhydderch cares for neither option, so he leaves without a word, escaping into the smog of the city. The garden before him is wild, a product of negiligence. Despite the masses of cats contained within the house, it's a popular destination for birds and mice alike. During the times the 'family business' struggles to make a profit guards are given hunting duty in the frontyard,, or even, if they're unlucky, beyond. It's a much less certain world out there, where Bayard's territory ends and everything else begins.

Out here is the only place on the property that counts as quiet, peaceful. Noises from the house can't permeate the brick and mortar, and the jaded road ahead is frequently deserted. It's a street surviving, mostly, without residents. Tillman's seems to be striving to make up for the distinct lack of life on Juno Street, in the house bursting at the seams with all the occupants it holds. Rhydderch is suddenly unsure of why he needed to come out here, when the barren cul-de-sac contrasts so sharply with his home, and serves to remind him how forlorn Khia must be. She's spent her life surronded by her peers, overwhelmed by them. Her isolation was his only option. She is an artist of escape, after all, and nothing but the cage would hold her.

Rhydderch heads back inside, swallowing his bitter melancholy sigh. He knows he's done the right thing, and by keeping Khia alive, he's keeping his head on his shoulders. He can't forget his promise to the wildcat, and he never knows if she'll come calling. It doesn't matter if his pseudo-daughter now hates him. Cariad can fend for himself. Rhydderch is certain it won't take much more than a stiff wind to bowl over the little she-cat.

"Rhydderch." His name is a coarse sound in his father's voice. Bayard has never called him Ru, or any affectionate hypocorism. The russet tom turns impatiently to face his father, who looks more and more grey by the day.

"Yes?" he asks. The short guard by the door sits and watches them, entranced. Or so he thinks; he can't be sure with that tom.

"You look terrible," Bayard comments, looking not amused but solemn. Rhydderch snorts at this, but doesn't deny it. He's sure he does; he's been sleepless these past few nights, wondering if they would take Khia away despite his order. He won't tell his father this- they communicate about strictly business, and rarely, if ever, about anything else.

"Is that all? I'm sure I have somewhere...else... to be." He's nothing but creative with his methods when it comes to escaping his father.

His father stares up at him, baleful. "Just letting you know we'll be focused on re-stocking after our latest trade. Numbers are down, of course, and it's not productive. There's some fresh prey for you too, in the Meat Room."

Ru used to love re-stocking. Now, he's not so sure anymore.

"Thanks," he mutters. He trots away, not feeling hungry at all. He goes to fetch some food anyway. The Meat Room is technically a cupboard, but it's cool in there; the kibble stays fresher for longer, and the prey doesn't spoil. They're often brought prey by strange cats, as payment. There's a plethora of things Bayard accepts as currency; foods, bedding, queens. Most things, really. That cat is a hoarder.

The tom noses open the door and peers inside, wondering what the menu has for him today. In the gloomy dark, he sees a few birds, which he guesses are starlings- they're common around here. There are mice, which are never in short supply, and a few grotesque rats. Kibble and pellets are heaped untidily in one corner, and more spills from torn boxes. Those in charge like to save the dry food for the queens and kits. Fresh food is a decadence predominantly reserved for cats of real importance, the ones in control. Ru picks a fat mouse and exits the Meat Room.

He enters Tillman's room feeling a little better- _there, Khia, I haven't forgotten you, see?_ "Spots?" he calls, though he expects no response. Ru pads over to the cage, and he blinks. The little door swings open, and it is so surprisingly empty. He thought he had her. He thought he'd saved her from that uncertain world. Rhydderch has fallen a little short, once again. The mouse drops to his paws. The silver-tongued tom is without words; the guilt in his stomach metamorphoses into a horrible remorse, a biting kind of grief. He searches the rest of the room in a hurry; he cannot swallow, for there is a lump in his throat.

He ends up at the window, where the curtain twitches fitfully in a faint breeze. It's wide enough for one small kitten to wriggle though, if she so desires. And Ru knows it's what she most wants, now- an escape, an out, a way to save her brother. Why didn't he tell her she'd only die trying?

_I'm leaving, and you can't stop me!_ How right she'd been.

He shakes his head to clear it. She's only a kitten. She has such short legs. She can't be far away at all. Immediately Ru leaps from the windowsill. He has one place to visit before he ventures out again. Khia mentioned Sablefrost in such a spiteful, resenting tone. Rhydderch kept sagely silent on the matter of her parentage, and there's only one other soul in the house that knows that name.

It doesn't take long to reach the bathroom; dodging piles of junk, he trots, fuming silently. He reaches her cage and stares into it, but he can't see her in the blackness. Ru hisses her name. He said it so softly once, when he caught her heart. And them he locked her up.

"Arrah!"

She takes her time appearing, but she comes to him anyway. Her green eyes are narrowed. "Yeah?" she snaps back. There was a time when he called her _sweetheart_, and she called him _my love_. He ruined it, because that's his job.

"She came to see you, and now she's _gone_. What did you tell her?"

"What she deserved to hear. Everyone needs to know who their parents are." They stare each other down. Does she hate him now? How could she not?

"Just because yours are a mystery," he growls. He never knew his mother, and he doesn't really care. Heritage. It's nothing, really.

"Family is important," Arrah insists, venom in his breath. "They've gone to find theirs. You're a fool if you get in their way."

"They?" he asks, but he sees it now; Khia could never escape on her own. That cage cannot be opened from the inside. Etch is one third of a trio, Khia half of a whole. Broken pieces belong together.

"Our daughter is brave," she says, and he knows their children are the only thing she will ever share with him, "unlike you."

"It's dangerous out there," Ru snarls. She ought to know that. Arrah came from the streets, dirty and ragged, and afraid. At least she knows she's safe here, where her meals come at regular intervals. He will ask nothing more from her, because Ru has a long list of things he feels bad about.

"They're smart. You sent out sons out there; isn't it dangerous for them too?" She was never this fierce, when she lived uncaged. It leaves him speechless for a moment; this trapped creature, in her rage and fear, is a kaleidescope of beauty painted pale in her helplessness. And though there's a fine line of bars between them, Ru's a little nervous. His charm has never done much against angry queens.

"What do you want me to _do_?" he asks. "It's futile. I've got no control over Bayard or his clients. It was all I could do to convince them that one tiny kitten was going to do nothing for their cause, but look over there, there's a strapping young tom."

Arrah doesn't care. She still blames him, still hates him. He sees it, in her narrow peridot eyes. Rhydderch is not in control; he just acts as though he owns the world. He sighs heavily. "They're gone," he tells her, wearily. "I'm going to look for Khia and Etch, they can't have gone far. I'll talk to you later."

"Yes, leave me. Again," she hisses at him, unfurling before his eyes and retreating into the darkness like smoke.

"Wait," he calls, regretting his choice as soon as he voices it. She pauses in her smooth sinuous movement, glaring at him expectantly. "I'll...I'll go bargain for their release. Okay? I'll find something for them to do around here."

"Just make sure they don't end up like _you_," she snaps, her scathing farewell. Ru leaves her, again.

…

He shoves the window open wider with his shoulder. If he's going to track them, he'd better start at the source. He's not much of a hunter, but he's already discovered Khia and Etch didn't leave alone. In Tillan's stale, hollow room, there is a third scent he doesn't recognise- and it leads straight out the window. Rhydderch has decided to find his daughter and his charge first, return them, and then he will grovel at Miss' feet until she releases his sons. He figures she can't say no to him. Which cat can?

He leaps into the garden, overcrowded and untamed as it is. It's a jungle, for small eyes. Ru considers leaping the fence, but the scent trail leads him straight to a hole between wooden panels. He slips through, sucking in a breath. Rhydderch is no spring chicken. It's confusing when one scent- Etch's- deviates from the others. He can almost imagine his daughter wandering off, daydreaming. Chasing a moth, maybe, before Khia reined her back in with a scowl.

Surprisingly, Rhydderch is able to follow the trail. It leads him down Juno Street, takes a left, takes a right. It's a little difficult when it crosses paths with Miss' crew, through sidestreets and alleys. Ru is still hopeful when it starts to rain. Even when the water drips from his whiskers and slicks his fur to his sides, he knows he'll find them. When the delicate scents he's been following run from the pavements and splash into gutters, he resorts to shouting.

"_Khia! Etch! Unknown third party!"_

Scrawny street cats growl at him from their shelters, and he feels a little afraid for the she-cats. They weren't meant for such a torrid life. And they weren;t meant entirely for cages, either, but that's the only option Ru can give them.

Nothing answers his calls but surly snarls. And he loses his hope. He ends up standing before the warehouse housing the revolutionists; this is the one thing he can do now for Arrah. The guard on duty lets him enter without a word. Rhydderch is infamous, in certain crowds. Inaide, it's a large building. Metal stairs, ever an enemy, lead up to a second floor. On the first floor are stacked boxes and burlap sacks, where a few cats sleep. Along one wall are a series of metal grates. Maybe they were drains once, but they've been blocked off and lined with whatever was available. They now house the kittens, judging from the young voices the echo within them. He's not sure why they've been locked away again, when all of Miss' hopes ride on this youth army. Perhaps he doesn't trust them, which is already a strategical error.

From experience, Ru knows Miss and Emory have claimed the second floor for themselves. He passes yet another guard on his way up, and wonders at all this surveillance. Why would anyone harm their only hope? He dislikes these stairs even more than the wooden ones, for he must use his claws to gain purchase, and it has tiny holes that punctuate its surface; it cuts into his paws.

"Hello?" he calls catiously, reaching the top of the stairs. Light streams in through a large, cracked window, and illuminates the dancing dust in the air.

"You ought to stop right there if you value you intestines staying right where they are," someone growls. Never one to idly ignore gruesome threats, Rhydderch halts, a little unsteadily, dripping water onto the floor. In front of him stands a tall black tom with dark eyes. He has his scars, like any common street brawler. Rhydderch knos Miss has always been fond of the rabble, but to bring one up to where she nests?

"Oh, please, Achilleus, it's just Ru," Miss calls, purring as she hops down from her nest of shredded burlap sacks, newspapers and boxes. It's not exactly silk and feathers, but it's all they can find around here, save for some old and torn towels. Emory follows.

"Rhydderch," he greets. "How can we help you?" Achilleus looks disgruntled but backs away to stand by the grey she-cat's shoulder.

"Well, this is awkward," Ru starts, "but I believer there has been a slight mix-up." He puts a self-depreciating smile on his face, trying to look embarassed and contrite. This is the best route, he's decided. He will look likeable and a little foolish, and they will give his sons back with a laugh. "You have two toms with you- Ruari and Brine. They weren't meant to go with you. They're my young prodigies, you see."

Miss opens her mouth to speak, but at a glance from Emory she shuts it again. "We apoligise for any and all confusion, Ru. But you see, we've already paid for them. And of course, we need them so dearly."

He lets his heart sink. There is no hope at all now- none for Khia and Etch, who face an uncertain future on the streets, and none for Ruari and Brine, who will die, slaughtered ingloriously by PureClan.

"There's a beautiful young she-cat, who will miss them, very much. If there's anything I can do...replacements, perhaps..."

"Oh, no," Miss says. "Replacements won't do at all...too much hassle, you know."

"_Please_," he says, and Achilleus' cold eyes fill with disgust.

Miss smiles at him. She'd be pretty, if not for the scar that runs from her eye to her mouth, her dissected ears, pink ribbons of skin running through her silver fur. "But I didn't say there _wasn't_ anything you could do."

"Oh," Rhydderch says, and he lets himself, he dares... "A favour then?"

"Of sorts," Miss replies. "We could use that silver tongue of yours, Ru. It could come in handy."

He'd never wanted any part in her war. He wanted to stand neutral, impassive on the sidelines as Miss drove her legions to their deaths. Then he'd say it was a good fight, a rousing attempt, ill-fated though it was. And then he'd go back to Bayard, because PureClan was good for business. Rhydderch is not a fighter, but his voice is molten gold and honey.

He thinks of Arrah, the sweetness she no longer shows him. If he let her, she'd be here bargaining for her children's lives. With her own, most likely. He can't set her free, anymore than she can love him after what he's done to her.

Ru says yes in a voice that drips with gold.

* * *

dear lord I hate typing these out twice. but it's ru and I love ru so there you go. and finally, an arrah/ru scene. Rurrah is still real. I wrote the one of my drabbles, sink, about them, it's the cutest. not like the verb sink, an actual sink. with water and plumbing. Still no internet, but the next chapter has been written and it'll be up in a week or two. I have to decide if I hate it or not first. Favourite line? I know what mine is, and I will defintely be scavenging it for another project.

Any mistakes are mine. Wrote it twice and still couldn't get it right huh


	11. Exodus

Recap: Caraid is sold to the rebels, but Khia is desperate to find and rescue him. With Cariad are their cousins Ruari and Brine, and the brother of some repulsively cheerful little tom with a weird tail named Gideon. Thwarting Ru, her caregiver, Khia escapes and sets out to save her brother, though she has absolutely no idea what she's doing, naturally.

* * *

_Temperature is dropping, temperature is dropping_

_Not sure if I could see this ever stopping_

_Shaking hands with the dark parts of my thoughts, no_

_ You are all that I've got, no_

_-Doubt, Twenty One Pilots_

* * *

Khia's never fled in her life, so unsurprisingly, she's a bit rusty. Gideon and Etch seem to be relying on her for directions. Oh yes, _of course_, she knows her way around this damn city. No two streets, of course, are identical. She was born, of course, with a map in her brain. She wants to snap all of this at them, but Etch's eyes are so wide and trusting, so hungry for adventure, and Gideon, well... She could drag him off into an alley so Etch, the ever empathetic soul, wouldn't get offended on his behalf.

She's lost without Cariad. He was always her anchor. Perhaps, if he wasn't her brother, she would've practiced this whole escaping thing before, failed half-attempt aside. She'd nearly give anything to have Ru with them, but she knows where he stands. It's right above her, and fine silver lines of a cage dissect his face. The cage meant for her. It was obvious, from his grandiose batrayal, that he never trusted her. He was waiting for an excuse to lock her away. Habits are hard to break.

"So..." Gideon drawls, as they round a street corner. Surprsingly, they're on another boring, bland grey street. "Your girls come here often?" He must think he's so great, with his kinky little tail and that personality of sunshine. His voice, lowered in a mockery of maturity, grates on her nerves and makes her flatten her ears. She's already plotting how to get rid of him. Violence may be required.

Etch giggles. _No_, Khia thinks reproachfully. _Don't fed his ego_.

"Yeah," Khia snaps. "All the time." She looks over her shoulder- Gideon is grinning at her, and his whiskers are twitching in... what? Glee? She can't tell; she's never been that happy.

Her cousin laughs again. Khia sees Gideon glance at her and smile. Etch is just that kind of cat; so bright and pretty, so small she looks as though she needs protecting. And she does. One day, toms will fall all over that. Khia's not jealous at all. She's a sneak. She's a thief; she takes moments from cats that don't even know they're being stolen from. Admittedly, they're just the Bayard's lackeys, and they deserve it. No tom will fawn over her, not even if she grows into her gangley little legs and her fur stops looking so scruffy.

Serious now, Etch asks, "Khia, are you sure you know where we're going?"

Khia snorts at this. What finally clued them on? Was it the circle they've been going in for ten minutes? "No," she says, softening her voice, just for Etch. "I never said I knew where we were going."

"Actually," Gideon chimes in, with his useful, valued opinion, "when we left, you told us, 'follow me' and ran onto the street."

"'Follow me' doesn't translate into 'I know where I'm going.'"

"Well," Etch replies, "it kind of implies you have an idea, don't you think?" Her cousin has obviously has no affection or familial obligations to her at all. This knowledge is great, really.

When she left the house, she had been sure. Swimming out of Ru's desperate clutches had given her some kind of confidence. It was, however, temporary. There was a mess of scents on the street, but she didn't know how to follow them, and one false turn has gotten them lost. The city is a maze. The house is a haven. Would she have ever left, if not for her brother? Her strength seems to stem from her brother, even now in absentia.

She starts to doubt herself. This world is too big for her, she knows, and she's not even seen half of it. Seen no more than a fragment, a crumb. This tiny taste has left a bitter afterthought upon her tongue, hot acid and dust and just a hint of home.

"Well, okay, we're lost," Khia says in retort, after a few moment's silence. "Is that what you want to hear?"

It starts to rain as she says this. She's never seen rain before; the coldness on her fur is an alien shock. If Ru were here, he'd laugh at her, and probably let her walk underneath his belly to sheild her from the worst of it. Sheild her. That's all he's ever done for her. Was it so wrong to ask for more?

Gideon clears his throat. Water trickles around their paws; they're standing in the gutter, because their street-smarts, or lack of, haven't told them not to. It at least seems safer than the road, where the occasional glittering metal beast snarls past, or the footpath, where tall two-legged things stride along every so often. "Perhaps we should find somewhere to wait this out?" he suggests. Etch nods enthusiastically, and Khia, who seems to need a guiding hand, agrees.

It's hard to define anything in these streets as 'shelter'. There are the buildings, many with jagged dark eyes and fading facades. They don't know how to get into those. And all of them, quietly, to themselves, think perhaps their escape was a little premature. A little ill-planned. A bit heroic, and very stupid. But they won't admit to it, although at this point there's nothing more than can happen to force their morale any lower into the mud. They peer into dark alleys, but there are already cats there, and none are friendly (Khia's nose just barely escapes unscathed from one uncounter).

The rain streaks from the black sky, tiny missiles that for the most part seem very well-aimed- if they were aimed at the three kits roaming industrial streets with their severe dejection painted on their faces. They settle for a building, eventually, when they find one with a door just ajar with its red paint flaking like rust. The building is condemned. The roof is about to fall in, but this information is not ready to Khia or her companions.

Etch laughs and makes a joke about Gideon's weight as he squeezes through the gap. Khia's not listening; she's looking at his tail again with a kind of morbid fascination. With his fur slicked to the bone, the kink is far more prominent. It points off to something in the distance, waving jauntily at a disturbing angle. She wonders how it happened; maybe, most likely, he was born deformed, with both his odd tail and his horribly sunny personality. She squeezes into the building after them. Ah, that familiar gloom. It's a second skin to her now, no matter what she does to escape it.

They all curl up in a corner, heads on shoulders and paws on tails. They shiver together; Khia knows what's worng with this scene. Cariad's not here, to warm her, to tease Gideon for her, to be her backbone. She feels alone, although Gideon begins snoring on her back, and Etch kicks her feather-light paws as she dreams. His absence is a deep wound, so she sits awake, prickling with anxiety and apprehesion. She hadn't felt this way when Cariad was first taken away, nor when Rhydderch locked her up. But the acute _wrongness_ of it only seems to hit her now, when all she wants is to go to sleep.

Etch squeaks in her sleep, and Khia mumbles at her to shut up. She doesn't. She squeaks again, and the sound is strange, oddly faint.

"Be quiet," Khia hisses.

"I _was_ being quiet," Etch says breathily, cracking open one eye to glare at her cousin.

"Oh yeah?" Khia retorts. Gideon stops snoring on her spine. "You were making noises-" that squeak again, "just like that."

Etch is silent for a moment; and so, blessedly, is Gideon. "That wasn't me," her cousin murmurs. Khia feels a kind of nostalgia, as though they are back in the basement, whispering ghost stories to each other, giggling, fearful, as the paranoia sets in.

"I think the rain has stopped," Gideon says under his breath, as though they are hiding. "Maybe we should le-"

He tumbles off her in a hurry, and Khia strains to see what he sees. At first she can't make out anything in the dark, but her eyes adjust with a practiced rapidity. Something just smaller than she is sits feet away. It is a sleek thing, and she ate the shoulder of one once, when it was thrown stone-cold dead into their pen. Tethys called it a rat, and proceeded to tell them a tale which gave Khia nightmares for the three days.

This rat is very much alive, and it stares at them with small dark eyes, twitching whiskers that are barely discernible in the darkness. It stinks; how did they miss such a musk before?

"There's just one of them," Khia says. "We can take it." _If Cariad were here, if Ru were here, if even Gideon's bloody brother Thaddeus was here..._ They're more alone than ever, and drowning in their ineptitude. As soon as the words leave her mouth, movement ripples in the shadows, the faintest hint of company.

"I don't want to," says Etch, sounding small and hollow. Tiny Etch, smart in her cowardice.

"We should probably just leave it alone," Gideon agrees nervously. He is inching towards the door, and the rat tracks his progress with a blank face. Khia sees it has teeth. They're very impressive. Still, Khia knows they haven't seen what she does; that fetid tide that lingers before them, cloaked in darkness, motions masked in the black.

"Oh, no," Gideon mutters. "He has a friend. Hello, Mrs Rat." Mrs Rat sits up, nose twitching in distaste. It is, perhaps, not a Mrs after all.

Lowly, Khia whispers," Yeah, let's just get out of here." She glances at both of them, unbidden signal in her eyes. They bolt towards the door; Khia is the quickest and outpaces the other two, although the dread tide is even faster than her. Their bodies are beneath her paws as she slips through the exit, spilling into the street with a gasp. Gideon's right behind her, and his tail flops in her face.

Etch squeals behind them. Khia turns; Etch tries to claw her way through the door, rat hanging tenaciously from her hindleg. Khia lunges for her and buries her teeth in the scruff of her neck. Gideon pounces on the rat, unbalanced as his tail drags him to one side. He bits into its spine; something he's done before, but always on things already dead. The rat relinquishes its grip on Etch's bloodied leg and shrieks. Unprepared for this, Gideon rears back and hits it in the face. Broken, the rat squirms away and crawls back through the door, into the chorus of dissent its brethren is making.

Etch collapses onto the pavement shaking. Her leg is bleeding. Khia's guilt grows in the pit of her stomach. Her plan, her escape, her fault.

"This was a_ bad_ idea," Etch moans. Though they're still too close to the rats, and should probably move soon, Khia curls around her and licks the back of her neck. What can she do, when something bleeds, but kiss it better? She hears one of those curious beasts growl as it slows, but she pays it no attention. Neither does Gideon; he looks so morose, as though he was responsible for this catastrophe. What does _he_ have to be sorry for? Khia resents his apparent guilt. Sir Sunshine had nothing to do with this, nothing to cause him guilt, and he knows it.

Something stands over her, and Khia recoils. Etch is still sobbing. Small Etch, whose legs are the shortest, and who now knows it. It is one of those upright things, repulsively hairless, just like Tillman. It reaches down and scoops the two she-kits into its paws, cooing something at them. And then it puts them both in a cage, condescendingly bopping Khia on her head before locking its door.

"Gideon?" Etch calls, panicking. They're nothing if not a trio, those three daring musketeers. Gideon doesn't reply; Khia pictures him on the street, small and huddled, confused and dangerously alone as the beast that swallowed them speeds away. Looking so sad, it makes her heart hurt. He will die without them, and they could be about to die themselves.

"We'll be okay," Khia says, and this may be the first time she says something she's not sure is true.

* * *

early chapter, yay. cariad chapter is underway. poor etch. poor gideon, poor khia. what we have learned from this: DON'T let khia lead the way.


	12. Encomium

Recap: Cariad is carted off to boot camp, where he will learn to die as gloriously as possible. Thad and Elettra are his roommates. They are also learning how to die. Fun times are had.

* * *

_He pretends that he's okay_

_But you should see him in bed, late at bed_

_He's petrified_

_-Trapdoor, Twenty One Pilots_

* * *

Dawn is a promise. It is a mystery, it is possibility, it is potential. Each dawn is a promise of what is to come, painted in bloody red smudges on the horizon. Anything may succeed it, and few things are certain. Dawn is infinite. It does not die, but fades, then returns again, with the glory of a promise. Cariad wonders what this day shall promise him. Wonders if he should vow anything in return.

He can't see the dawn, per se. It is only the lessening of the gloom that alerts him to this fact; he wonders how long he was drifting, softly treading the line between fitful consciousness and uneasy sleep. He's never slept worse, not even the night he was taken from Arrah. He still had his sister then. This odd cage, this hole in the ground, is not uncomfortable. It is lined with blankets and towels and even a few feathers, although their purpose here is unclear. He looks to his companions, the charismatic Thad and Elettra, who sips upon his charm like ambrosia. There is something that charisma that demands, enticingly, to be noticed and followed.

Caraid is awkward, not charismatic. Enigmatic, if anything; a tough, solid shell that, when cracked, reveals not a hell of a lot. He wants to learn. His sister is not his crutch anymore. He must survive without her, so for now, he will follow Thad.

Elettra is awake. She smiles when he realizes she's watching him. "Sorry your sister got left behind," she whispers, almost conspiratorial in her quietness.

"Yeah," Cariad says, but he's not. Sorry, that is. She shouldn't have to die. Maybe he shouldn't either, but that point's moot. His life does not belong to him.

"You got anyone?" he asks, to fill the silence that is becoming increasingly awkward. Maybe that's just him, interpreting things that aren't there.

"Oh, no," she replies, grinning. "Only child. Big disappointment."

He wonders what that would be like, to have no one. No sister, no responsibility, no guilt, no worry. To be completely lonely, and fill those spare moments of your life with those you share no blood with. For Cariad, family has been a reoccurring theme, a pleasant but persistent undertone in his life. That theme has gone, and he's practically aimless.

"Must be nice," he says, after a moment, wondering if he means it.

…

They start them off easy. Simple exercises, balance. The laws of motion in a fight- that every one of your actions shall cause a greater reaction. This is how to goes for several days. Cariad and Elettra continue to wake up before Thad, basking in that easy glow of a promise, for now unbound and unmeasured. They complain about their muscles, which ache, and their bossy teachers. But they have _something_ to do. Miss has given them a purpose. And they feel, if anything, grateful.

Their teachers are gruff. They're alley cats, shadow things, lonely and territorial and proud about it. They're here for self-preservation, of course, but Miss doesn't care about that. They're here to fight, and right now, that's all she wants. The more bodies there are to throw at PureClan, the better. No one tells the kits this. The power of the rebels is exaggerated to them greatly, whenever they are within earshot. They will forget what it is like, to be fallible. Right now, that's all they are.

…

Meino is the nice one. Nicer, at least, than Grete. She makes them run laps around the warehouse, laughing as they build 'muscles' and 'endurance'. No one tells them why this matters. Cariad sees that scarred cat watching them from the second floor. It passes through the ranks; the rumours, of her namelessness and mutilation, of her plans. Cariad presses closer to Elettra when he sees her. He can't explain it, but they both shared a home ripped from them, and are kindred in nature. In a way, he substitutes her for his sister, although he just can't picture her in that light, that spotlight that shines on Khia. Still, her loud sorrel fur is enough to deafen the ache in his heart, and her smile blinds him to his loneliness.

It is a competition, between him and Thad, to see who will grow the biggest, the strongest. Cariad thinks he will win, although for now, it's an even battle. Cariad still has paws too big for his body, and he consumes those stray emotions he sometimes has-when Elettra is not bright enough, and Thad fails to make him smile- with exercise, those monotonous laps, the races they hold sometimes, the sparring that for now, is a last vestige of youth. It still entertains them. Thad is often his partner, but when that fails, he turns to Elettra, or a tabby tom named Kin.

Their sparring turns desperate- the best fighter gets the most food, and the older cats treat them with some measure of respect. They find, as they grow into their gangly limbs and too-long bodies, that respect is what they want now. They want to be equals, and they don't question this desire; they're not kits anymore (they're half-way in-between, an awkward coupling of youth and adulthood). Still, they're treated like kits. It infuriates Thad, who often loses to him, and while Cariad can share food, high praise can only be earned.

One day, they pair him with Azazel, the golden spit-fire of a she-cat. She hasn't grown much, and Cariad, self-assuredly, towers over her. His confidence flees him as she barrels beneath his chest and knocks his legs out from under him. Cariad is often a victor; the art of losing does not come to him easily, but humiliation burns his ears all the same. Az grins down at him with her claws on his throat. When he swallows, the curve of them is pressed into his skin, and blood wells around their tips. He is reminded of that day in the basement, some long and lethargic days ago. Weeks, perhaps; who is there to keep count? The day he first tasted his own mortality as it seeped from his skin, courtesy of her well-aimed blow. Nostalgia is just as bitter.

"So," Azazel says, "like it down there?" He bares his teeth at her, a gesture that inadvertently mirrors her Cheshire smile.

"No," snaps Cariad, with as much dignity as he can muster. Admittedly, it's a pitiful amount. "It smells."

"I didn't mean to offend poor Warrior Boy's delicate senses," Az purrs. Her paws is gone in a heartbeat and he rolls to his paws, shaking dust from his fur. He towers over her, and that's meant to be intimidating, but that smile is a permanent fixture, and there is no grey tom kit to drag her away this time.

Cariad chooses not to confirm her statement and springs at her, bringing her to the ground. The others fight on around them, laughs and shrieks echoing around the warehouse. The two opponents emit neither sound, and their intensity flares in their eyes, this battle of two who don't understand each other. Still, this is a child's battle, and their claws are soft. They will see so much more, and they are not enemies, but they try to be.

Cariad wins this time, but there's a long scratch down his stomach. A scrap of sandy fur spins haphazardly through air with the dust. The feeling of triumph returns, already so familiar.

"Well done, Cariad," Grete says, passing by. Her grey pelt is streaked with scars and her ribs show, but still, she is nothing when she stands next to their spectacle of a leader. Cariad beams with pride, and Azazel, still pinned, scowls. "But _don't_ suffocate her." _We need her._

"Sorry," Cariad says, not apologetic in the least. He lets Azazel up, and she looks worse for wear. The smile has been slapped away. Her shoulder is bleeding, but hey, there are two guilty parties here.

The skirmishing breaks up for a while, and Cariad makes his way over towards Elettra and her friend Brava, a yellow tabby, proudly displaying his wounds.

"Wow," Brava says, "who bet you up?"

"Az, that ginger cat over there." He points with his tail to where she has reconvened with her brother. Both she-cats giggle, and he deflates.

"She's tiny," Brava laughs. Elettra sees his injured expression and nudges her shoulder against his.

"I'm sure she's very feisty," the sorrel cat soothes, looking motherly and sympathetic. They groom each other as they fall asleep that night. Thad laughs and demands the return of his privacy. He's not anywhere close to forgetting Khia- he likes to think he never will. Still, getting out of that basement was perhaps the best thing that has ever happened to him.

…

He arrives one day, disgruntled and scowling. The kits- who have long since ascended into adolescent, and have the gangly limbs to prove it- are shoved into his tutelage. Miss makes an appearance, introduces him as Ice, and then leaves again, as is her habit. Ice brings with him strange fighting stances, deadly moves. He is not slack, and he is fiercer than Grete. Cariad receives no respect from this new tom. He is, however, recipient of many odd, contemplative looks, and it makes him uncomfortable. He whispers this to Elettra. She agrees; he's creepy.

Under Ice's apparently expert guidance Cariad flourishes. Something inside of him was made for this, for fighting and scrapping and struggling to survive. But he still doesn't know what he fights for. Their enemy is one without a face. He remembers, dimly, of old Tethys and a story, but the foe she talked of has fled his mind, the pictures she grudgingly wove have faded.

Khia, he's sure, could tell him.

It's a shock when one day, he sees a familiar face. He thought he'd left Tillman's forever, that house and all the cats inside. Looks like he was wrong. He runs up to Rhydderch with a smile on his face. Ru is a likable tom, although Cariad always had the distinct impression that in his eyes, he was second-best beside his sister.

"Ru," Cariad says smoothly (Thad rubs off on him). "Thought you were shot of me, didn't you?" He wonders what business has in the warehouse stacked haphazardly with plots and grand ideas of revolution. Rhydderch turns, ears flat against his head in surprise. His eyes widen in a way that is almost comical. Cariad's not really meant to be up this late, but he was up with Ice talking about refining his foreleg movements.

Ru stares for a moment. It must difficult to recognise him, because he's nearly as tall as him and he has filled out, excessively. He has a few soft pink scars now, but this pain is temporary.

"Cariad," Ru exclaims, grinning. "You look well. How have you been?"

Cariad begins a bout of agreeable, enthusiastic head-bobbing, something he always does when trying to converse with adults. "Yeah, good. It's good." He hadn't thought past his greeting, and now, he has nothing to say.

Ru purrs. "That's good."

"How are Ruari and Brine? I heard you took them back." _Conversational genius._ His cousins had disappeared the day after he arrived, and truly, he was happy for them. They weren't best friends, and they probably didn't deserve to die either.

"They're very good. They're going to be guards. I, uh, didn't want to get on Arrah's bad side." The russet tom grins.

"Yeah, I know what they're like when they're mad," Cariad agrees, thinking of the one fight he had with Elettra. _Brava is mean, she makes fun of me! She's fine, she just has a sense of humour. I don't like her. Well, no one asked you to!_

"Aha," Ru says. "You have a lady?" Cariad's face heats up at his words. It's weird, to be talking about this with Ru, who has literally attempted to raise him since birth.

"Well…I guess. Maybe." Cariad thinks about Elettra, and how he would like that _maybe _to evolve into a yes. But there's something else on his, crowding the fringes and dripping onto his tongue; the words he's been holding back since he say Ru stroll into the warehouse. He's not sure, for some odd, nervous reason, that he wants to know the answer. "Anyway. Khia doing alright?" There, he's said it, and he can stop wondering. Stop biting his claws like an antsy queen.

Ru nods, as though he's been expecting this question. "Well, you know your sister," he starts. "Been spending a lot of time with Etch, and missing you, too."

"Tell her I miss her," Cariad says immediately. "And that I love her." Ru looks sad. Is he mourning their relationship, shattered on the rocks of rebellion?

"Okay," Rhydderch mumbles. Before they can say more, Miss and Emory approach, Ice trotting at their heels. (It seems he has swapped one collar for another.)

"Well, hello Ru, Cariad," Miss says brightly. She's much less uptight, when she is not the focal point for dozens of eyes. Cariad is pleasantly surprised to discover she knows his name. Emory nods at them, but Ice's frown doesn't budge.

"Good evening," Ru says cordially. "Cariad and I were just talking, I hope you don't mind, but I came here for business after all…"

"What? Cariad's fine. He can listen in; he is Ice's little prodigy, after all." Cariad is surprised to hear this- that Ice will tolerate any affiliation with him at all. His frown changes not at all, so perhaps Cariad _is_ held in high esteem after all.

The black tom begins to feel awkward as they discuss his training, as Ru exclaims he 'endorses him completely'. Ice is as critical as ever, picking apart his size and speed, but the others could care less about his remarks. Ice eventually agrees Cariad will be 'suitable.'

This goes over his head. He's thinking Arrah, and Khia, and Elettra, who is probably bored with Thad's company by now. He told her he'd be ten minutes, at the most.

"What do you think, Cariad?" Emory asks suddenly. "Up for a little adventure?"

He nods, but this adventure is not a small one, though he does not know it, and he is treading dangerous waters. He goes back to his nest and thinks nothing more of it, but soon, Cariad will start to drown.

* * *

featuring the most pointless conversation ever. very exciting filler, i hope i haven't knocked anybodies' socks off. leave me a review, it makes me happy, and i posted early for like the third time in a row

check out my a drabble a day challenge for fluff and tidbits that don't feature in ttatt but still are relevant. mostly.

silly cariad, adventures are scary.


	13. Invidious

Recap: Oakpaw is apprenticed off to a practical nobody and as a result becomes jealous of Emberpaw, whose mentor is the wonderful godly Morningstar. He discovers his pseudo-father hates him, because logically, Sablefrost's death is his ENTIRE fault. Oakpaw also sees his first deaths, inspiring a few morbid thoughts. Otherwise, he has a pretty boring life.

* * *

_I must be tough  
I must behave, I must keep fighting_

_-Desire, Years and Years_

* * *

Oakpaw watches as Waterstripe bleeds out, as the dirt turns to mud and brown turns to red. _Damn_, he thinks, wishing he were older, wishing he were seasoned, wishing this was his chance to secure the deputy position as his. That chance might never be his, but he knows little of his predecessor, nor his murder, so he wants it with a passion. The last Oakstar was not a lucky tom- why should the next be any different?

Morningstar stares grimly down at the twitching elder, resolution in her eyes, a light behind her smile. The crowd is silent- this spectacle in alien. None of them remember such a large, personal execution, where he who was sentenced to die was their mentor, their elder, the least suspecting cat in the Clan.

"Is there anything else I should know?" Morningstar says, voice saccharine, though blood still stains her muzzle and chest. The Clan remains silent, and Oakpaw exchanges a glance with Cloudpaw. The tom is looking a little deflated today, considering his own mentor is the defector. Cloudpaw gives him a _what can you do_ expression, and shrugs.

"Tornear, Cloudpaw, Gorsespots, Jayflight, Oakpaw, come with me. Don't look at me like that Peppermask- fine, you can come too. We'll be following the coward's tracks. It may take us a day or two. The rest of you, life is as normal. Meadowmist, you will be the interim deputy."

Meadowmist looks pleased- or rather, her facial expressions does not resemble a badger's as much as it usually does. The named cats are gathering loosely beside Waterstripe's body. They spare him no glances; they know what death looks like. Oakpaw joins them, standing behind his friend. He hadn't expected to be picked for anything, but now that he has, he is excited. He imagines going on a raid must be similar.

"No time to lose," Morningstar snaps. "Oh, and Emberpaw…take Waterstripe to the river." Her apprentice looks horrified, but Oakpaw smirks at her misfortune.

Morningstar sets off immediately at a brisk trot, expertly weaving through the undergrowth. Oakpaw falls in line behind Cloudpaw, and the journey is silent. They're focused on the task ahead; catching their traitor, and stringing him up for the world to see. There's no doubt; Iceface will bleed. The many-headed snake will turn its venom inwards. Oakpaw, not normally one for gormless spectating, thinks he will enjoy the show.

There's also the chance he will fight something, teeth and claws, inhibitions stripped away, for the first time. This excites him even more. Sure Cloudpaw or Burrpaw aren't bad for a brawl, but they've never tried to kill each other- as far as he's aware. He has bleed, but it is without passion, desperation, and it's a taste he longs for.

They reach the river in good time; the deputy's scent is still fresh, and his tracks in the mud are visible even from the opposite bank. Morningstar is the first to slip into the river, unflinching. Tornear and Peppermask follow her, a little gingerly. The other warriors are far more reluctant, but the wraith of their leader is effective motivation. Oakpaw and Cloudpaw exchange a glance; neither of them have swum before, and they're not sure it's an achievable feat. _Cloudpaw has nothing to worry about_, Oakpaw thinks. _Look at all that fur, it'll be buoyant._ The other tom just shrugs and steps into the water, although his movements are slow and wary; he wears a pained expression on his face. He makes a low sound in the back of his throat, but by this time Morningstar has nearly completed the crossing. Oakpaw makes the bold decision to jump straight in, and river water goes everywhere; in his eyes, his nose, and all over an indignant Cloudpaw. The tabby tom resurfaces, spluttering, flailing his legs in a motion that somehow propels him forwards.

Morningstar watches him from the nearby bank, and he can't tell, as he attempts to keep from drowning, if she's amused or impatient. He passes Jayflight, who is apparently a slow swimmer. The water is cold, but it is nothing he hasn't dealt with before. He reaches the other side well before his friend. Mud coats his paws, and his pelt is clogged (with what must be half of the contents of the river).

"Hurry up," Morningstar barks at Cloudpaw. "We haven't got all day for a leisurely swim, you tiny air-head." The white tom slips out of the river a few moments later, ears flat against his head. The leader tastes the air and scans the tracks left behind; Oakpaw notices a foreign scent in the air, thick and bitter. His exhilaration begins anew.

The group picks up the pace again, faster now, with the taste of their quarry on their tongues. They wonder if they've wasted too much time, if Waterstripe's death was more theatrical than necessary - if his immediate execution was even required at all. Morningstar has been washed clean by now, but even she may be regretting her bloodlust. No one will say it to her face.

Cloudpaw, still drenched, is not having a great time. His paws are muddy, and tiny twigs and burs catch in his fur. Oakpaw decides not to mention the small collection of leaves and sticks building on his tail. His day's been bad enough already- although, Oakpaw thinks, if his own mentor were to disappear, he would not be disappointed at all. He still remembers Morningstar's sneer when he, the son of everything PureClan sought to destroy, dared to ask for something, anything. All that PureClan had to offer was too good for him. He's honoured that he was even picked for this task at all- he guesses his fighting speaks for itself, and not his own merits. Still, this could be proof that Morningstar doesn't hate him completely.

The forest begins to change, slowly. The undergrowth disappears, and soon they are walking on pine needles. Conifers tower above them, and the lighting is poor. The tracks disappear, but Morningstar presses on, dim gold in the gloom. Oakpaw is sick of running, and hopes the fighting is not far away. The sharp stink of pine is all he can smell, and he thinks that this is not the adventure he was promised. He strikes up a conversation with Cloudpaw; it's all he can do. Oakpaw has never been one who enjoys his own thoughts, or the quiet of their absence.

"So," the tabby says, ignoring as the warriors flick their ears in irritation; this is an expedition, a hunt, and silence is almost mandated. "Who do you think will be your mentor now?"

"I don't know," Cloudpaw says, looking unbothered. "Doesn't matter, I'm nearly a warrior anyway."

"Lucky," Oakpaw says, the subject of circumstance of birth lingering in his head, for a moment. "I bet you'll do well."

His friend looks smug at the praise. "I reckon," he says, batting at the air as they run in some mock battle manoeuvre. His father Gorsespots glances back at the pair, distinctly unimpressed. "If I can beat you once or twice, what's a mangy little Tainted to me?"

"I wish I was that close to being a warrior," he says wistfully. The vacant deputy position calls to him, but he's a youth, and while some pin their hopes on the shoulders of the young, PureClan will not. They won't break tradition, ancient vows or archaic laws. PureClan is an old beast, and its habits are rotting, fermenting.

"It goes pretty quick," Cloudpaw says. "Don't worry about it."

They begin to chat, about fighting, about hunting- Oakpaw is not its biggest advocate- about warrior names, about assessments and how they will both breeze through them. Oakpaw likes Cloudpaw better than Mallowpaw or Burrpaw, his oldest friends, who have become a bore; their friendship was never a choice, when they were raised together. They were practically littermates.

Morningstar freezes ahead of them, and they shut their mouths; in an instant, they see what she sees; a small group of cats ahead of them, a cosy half dozen, moving at a languid pace. They have their backs to them, and have no clue the Clanners are metres behind them. Iceface's pale pelt is a beacon. This will be a tricky ambush; the pine forest provides no cover; there is no undergrowth here, and even the lowest branches tower above them.

Morningstar turns to them, eyes calm; her grin, however, is wide and infectious. They had not expected to catch up so quickly. "We will have to rush them. Hide behind trees until you are close enough to run. If any of you screw this up, I will kill you instead. I hope that's clear enough."

_I couldn't screw this up if I tried._ He's so excited he barely breathes. And he knows, just knows, that he will be brilliant. What else could he be?

The group silently disbands, slinking away to take up positions behind trees, smoke across the ground. It's easy to be this quiet when the carpet of needles smother any noise his paws could make. He can now hear exchanges between cats in the group, although he's too far to pick out individual words. Their ignorance is thrilling. Their surprise will be his ambrosia, the sudden fear and shock on their faces glorious. Oakpaw is a willing weapon, and he enjoys it.

He darts from tree to tree; Tornear is ahead of him, Jayflight keeping pace on his left. No hunt has ever enticed him so. He sees Morningstar, flat and sleek against the ground, and when she breaks into a sprint, he does the same, stretching into the wind, claws already unsheathed. He's no match for Jayflight's speed as she dashes ahead; in fact, she is the first to reach the city cats. They turn with surprised, feral cries. Iceface pivots and is silent, although there is fear in his eyes. He flees from Morningstar as he spots her approach. Some follow, but others are not so fast. Jayflight locks herself in an embrace with a stocky black tom, and Oakpaw throws himself onto a lean grey tabby. She seems surprised at his onslaught- he's clawing away chunks of fur before she starts to fight back. Already, Oakpaw knows he's stronger than her. He is simply better.

Morningstar catches a ginger tom and knocks his head into a tree. He moans and slumps to the forest floor, blood trickling from scratches on his muzzle. The others are fighting a black she-cat and a golden tom. The black she-cat breaks away from them and stumbles into Jayflight, who has pinned the tom to the ground, preparing to break his spine in two. The two stare at each other for the briefest moment, and for once in her life, Jayflight is too slow. The black cat lashes out, and flinches as her claws pass through the warrior's throat, as her blood splashes her face.

The Clan cats falter. Even Morningstar pauses, as Jayflight falls. The last of the city cats pound away, desperation in their gasps and the strain of their muscles. They've be given a reprieve, as someone lies dying. Oakpaw's she-cat worms away, and it takes him a moment to realize he should give chase. He runs after her, and some other warriors follow him, but it's clear the enemy has the lead, and he won't catch them in these strange woods.

He returns to Morningstar with a strange confliction inside him; the fight thrilled him, fulfilled his violent dreams, yes, but one of his own is choking on her own blood, and he isn't sure what she did to deserve that. Maybe, he guesses, it's the best way to die, fighting, taking, spilling, scrapping. _Like his mother, but no, he doesn't think about that._ Morningstar stares down as Jayflight twitches; they stare at each other, but perhaps the grey she-cat sees nothing at all.

That the hunt for her father would end in her death seemed inconceivable.

"We'll have to leave her here," Morningstar says, as the last part of Jayflight dies. One fly has already answered the call of carrion; it crawls across her cloudy eyes, bluer in death than he ever noticed in life. It seems almost wrong to leave her slumped, empty and bare, in a forest far from home. He's not going to volunteer to drag her body back, in a two hour trip. He doesn't care _that_ much- and neither, evidently, does anyone else.

Morningstar turns to the one city cat who remains, unable to flee. It's the sandy ginger one, unconscious, his head stained a dulling shade of red. "At least we have him," she sighs, then kicks him in the ribs. He grunts, and opens his eyes, blinking rapidly. It only takes him a moment to recall where he is, but there is stern resignation on his face, as though he hopes to hide his fear. That mask will be stripped from him, and Jayflight's death will only increase the harshness of the process.

PureClan is a team, a perfected one, and though there is no love, they want revenge, vengeance, when one of their own is felled. Oakpaw wants it too, now. He wants to slot neatly into that team, that large loveless family. He will.

* * *

jeeze oak you egomaniac

i know the timelines seem a bit wacky but by the time we reach cariad's chapter again they should all be on the same page. who know's, i'm winging this, just like i winged tpatp

reviews are muffins, read my a drabble a day thing for behind-the-scenes, fluff, extras and whatevers, have a good day


	14. Ossify

Recap: Emberpaw is just a regular Edmund Hillary, climbing stuff and all that. She still can't keep her mouth shut either so she dobs in Waterstripe to Morningstar, who helped Iceface in his brave and daring escape.

_Why won't you speak_

_where I happen to be_

-Trees, Twenty One Pilots

* * *

Nothing remains of Waterstripe but his hollow body, ruined and drained but still twice as heavy she is. Emberpaw isn't sure why Morningstar gave her this heinous task, considering she'd done something supposedly good. Maybe the leader operates on a 'you make the mess, you clean it up' basis- this is technically her fault. It still feels like a punishment, as she rolls the dead elder down to the river, unwilling pick him and drag him, and taste that death on her tongue.

_Emberpaw, take Waterstripe to the river, blah blah blah,_ she thinks to herself, only a little bitter, pulling a face and sticking her tongue out. Waterstripe's head knocks against a tree and she feels sick. _I'm off to do real work, blah blah blah._ She thinks she can hear the river from here, but maybe she's just being hopeful. If she wasn't pushing Waterstripe's sorry pelt the whole way, she could already be there. She relies on the trees now, her network at altitude, the one place where no one looks.

In this bitter, petty moment, she knows she hates Morningstar. She rolls Waterstripe to the river's edge. It is too turbid, too fast moving to reflect her face back at her, but she stares down at it anyway. She pushes the bloody corpse into the water, and he bobs away ungracefully, streaking the water around him a pale shade of red. Emberpaw washes her paws. She is a spy, not some disposal service. And even spies have their dignity.

The apprentice returns promptly to camp. She has no desire for any more treetop stalking today, and she's sure she has earned a break. The camp has almost returned to normal; everyone avoids the stain in the center of camp, the one attracting flies, the one slowly drying into a sludge under the sun. It's not in their nature to talk, after all.

Her brother returns late in the day. The group is disheveled. Their shoulders slump, and it takes Emberpaw a moment to realize that Jayflight is missing. One of the senior toms is dragging a ginger cat awkwardly, as a mother carries her kits. She sees the blood on his head; he looks quite dead but he can't be, because Morningstar has no use for a dead tom.

"Emberpaw!" Morningstar barks as she strides across the clearing. Small steps were not made for the impatient. _Well_, she thinks to herself, _maybe he's dead after all, and she just wants me to practice my dragging-my-corpses-to-the-river technique._ Obviously it's somehow lacking. The apprentice gets to her feet, moving away from her sunny spot in the corner of camp. She looks to her brother again, who looks vacant; even so, there's something behind his eyes, red and misty and smug. She doesn't care what he's done.

Emberpaw hurries to catch up to her mentor, who has already reached her own den. Tornear stands beside her, still carrying the ginger Tainted by the scruff of his bloody neck. The golden she-cat nods at him, and he waddles into her den, the tom's limp spine bumping against his legs. "Did you have an exciting afternoon?" Morningstar asks mildly.

She shrugs at the leader, who is not fazed by the one-sided conversation. "Well, I did, as you no doubt imagined. It was _wild_. Jayflight's dead, if you haven't guessed. Real inconvenience of course. She and Strongclaw were going to be paired- a small amount of irony on my part I suppose- but _that_ obviously will not be happening now."

"I see," Emberpaw says. She's in no mood for chitchat after her personal discovery of her hatred for everything sleek and gold. Morningstar just peers at her from beneath hooded eyelids.

"Anyway," Morningstar continues. "You would have noticed I have handily managed to snag one of those wretched city cats." Tornear emerges from her den and stands beside the entrance, stoic and expressionless. Morningstar slips past him and Emberpaw follows, not quite certain she's supposed to.

It's dark inside the den; it's the second time Ember has been in here today, but any older scents have been drowned out by a medley of blood and fear. The Tainted has been woken up, and huddles in the corner, although he is desperate to appear emotionless. He is not a warrior, and he is a pathetic weapon. Morningstar curls her lip at him, tall and molten gold even in the dimness of the burrow.

"Nice nap?" she asks, and all of the mild manners she displayed only minutes earlier have fled. The ginger tom spits at her feet. Emberpaw watches the exchange, thinking that the Tainted has even worse conversational skills than she does.

"Well, we'll start off easy then. Did they give you a name, or shall I keep calling you 'the wretch' and 'the city scum'?"

"Feliks," he mutters. His shadow on the wall bristles under the heavy weight of alien scrutiny.

"That was easy," Morningstar says with a fleeting smile. Out of context, it is a small benign moment. In context, it is a foreshadowing, a clue. A shiver glides down her spine, and she wishes that Oakpaw was her mentor's favourite object to torment, that he was here instead of her, and that he was loving every minute that promised blood. Emberpaw would like very much to be mundane, to be as careless as Mosspaw or Fawnpaw.

"Now," says the leader. That one small syllable is violent. She does not have what she wants and she lacks the patience to wait for it. In contrast, Emberpaw is a very patient cat. She sits around in trees all day, after all, just in the hopes that something might happen.

"I won't tell you anything," Feliks says defiantly, a troubling fierce look in his white-rimmed eyes. Morningstar remains unimpressed, undeterred. She doesn't even seem mad.

"Are you sure about that?" she asks. "You'll find I can be very persuasive, and unfortunately I have no morals."

Feliks shakes his head, and his eyes slide to Emberpaw, nervous and silent in the corner, a shadow feeling very out of place. She isn't sure if he's trying to tell her something, through those dark desperate eyes, and if a message is there, is is choked behind the gloom. What would he have to say to her, anyway, a spy, a henchman, when he has just sworn not to tell them anything? She narrows her eyes at him, and her whiskers twitch in distaste. She wants nothing to do with him, but indeed she might just be forced to end him.

The golden queen prowls a little closer; Emberpaw glances at Feliks' paws, and sees his claws are unsheathed. Would she leap to Morningstar's defense, if he attacked her? How could she not, and expect to live afterwards? She cannot see Morningstar's face anymore, and the small deadly smile that graces her lips. If Emberpaw was under interrogation, she would have already spilled all the secrets she knew, which was no small amount.

"Who are you working for?" she hisses, towering above him as he presses himself to the ground, a worried rumble rising in the back of his throat. Her claws too are unsheathed, and they curve into the dirt. Feliks only growls in reply. Emberpaw, standing in her corner, feels a little awkward.

In one swift movement, Morningstar clubs Feliks' head, knocking him over, rolling him onto his back. She pins him down by heavily pushing one paw into his shoulder and chest with the other on his throat. The tom is gasping for breath, and kicks his hind legs in efforts that win him nothing

"Who is it?" she snarls. "What are they planning?"

"Won't tell you," he wheezes, as blood leaks from the older wound on his head, thick and sluggish. "Won't make a difference anyway."

"Is it Palefur? Is it that conniving old tom that sells kits for whatever he desires? One of the gangs?" It is a flurry of words, accusations; Morningstar has many enemies, and she cannot list enough of them. The mention of a Clan cat's name makes her prick her ears- Palefur is not a name she remembers. Emberpaw wonders if this faceless warrior could be a exile, but the mere idea doesn't seem right. No one has been exiled for years. Death now is the only option given to anyone the leader wants gone. _Like her mother._

"It isn't a gang," Feliks snaps, twisting in Morningstar's grip, threatening to break her hold.

"Emberpaw," she calls over her shoulder, barely bothering to glance back at the apprentice, reluctant to move even a step closer to what must become carnage. She does so anyway, stepping lightly, as though she's back in her trees, like she might fall at any minute. "Pin him down. Use your claws," Morningstar instructs. Emberpaw does as she asks, trapping Feliks' hind legs beneath her feet. His fur is gritty. She sinks her claws into the wiry muscle of his legs, and uses all her weight to press him into the floor. He is quivering, and she feels his veins against her skin pulsing in their panic. Feliks is truly trapped now, although the interrogation so far has been light. Emberpaw can only hope her slight weight is enough to hold him, that he won't rear up and crush her skull, throw her against the wall and snap her neck. She has morbid thoughts sometimes.

"I can let you go, you know. Have you considered that possibility? I want some answers, city scum, and I'll pay for them. You'd be a very lucky cat."

"I don't trust you," Feliks says, twitching. "We've heard all the stories. You, ma'am, are a liar." Morningstar snorts derisively at his comment and tightens her grip, smearing dark red blood down her leg, where, Emberpaw vaguely notices, is a pale pink scar, round and ragged and beaming in whatever light has managed to make it into the den.

"We're going to have to get messy, then," Morningstar sighs, sounding not disappointed but irate. She surely did not expect him to spill all his secrets at the lucrative promise of freedom. "We'll start with what's easy. I'm a little tired. Emberpaw, his stomach, if you will."

"What?" Emberpaw says, glancing up into her mentor's face, taken aback. _What about his stomach? It's, uh, a nice stomach?_

"Stomachs happen to be particularly sensitive," she states, matter-of-fact. "I also happen to want some _answers_ to some _very easy_ questions of mine. And you find things out for me, don't you? So answer my questions."

"Sure thing," Emberpaw answers, although her hesitance wavers in her words, and she feels simultaneously afraid and sick. She leans her weight on one leg, and raises one paw in the air, and doesn't look in the tom's face. She slashes downwards, rakes a set of neat and shining marks down his belly. He jerks, and grunts, although he tries to mask the sounds of his pain. Blood begins to stain his soft ginger fur. Morningstar just shakes her head and tsks.

"Ask him the questions, Emberpaw," she says softly. "I think you know a little more about this whole affair than I do."

"Who are you working for?" she asks. She tries to to come off as hostile, but her voice and small, and it is in no way compelling. "What do you want? What are you using the kits for?"

Feliks stills suddenly, and Emberpaw feels exposed, like she's asked something she wasn't supposed to know- and she never told Morningstar about Kenna, and the kits she talked of. Maybe a small lie will be easy to fabricate.

"You think you know more than you do," Feliks growls. "Don't talk about things you don't understand."

"Not good enough, Emberpaw," Morningstar whispers. "No, don't do it again," she says sharply, as the apprentice raises her paw for a repeat performance. "You need _more_."

"How?" Emberpaw asks, not yet regretting the question.

"You need to get a _feel _ for the situation," Morningstar purrs. With one paw, she mimes a twisting motion, her claws bare and gleaming. Emberpaw is revulsed (she thought corpse disposal was a disgusting job). Swallowing- it is so loud, Feliks must hear it- she raises her paw again and strikes the tom's stomach. Her claws find their purchase in his untidy ginger fur, and they stick, bound by some kind of iron desire Emberpaw does not want to explore. She twists, until she feels blood bubble up beneath her paw. The city tom screeches.

"Who are you working for?" she asks again, and though she is disgusted by the torrid blood running over her paw, her once brilliant-white paw, her voice is strong. "What do they want?"

"More," Morningstar insists, "more." He shakes beneath her touch. She wonders if the whole camp can hear them.

"It's obvious!" Feliks growls. "The whole world hates you. Even _you_ hates you."

"Do you want to kill us?" Morningstar asks. Her own claws dig into the tense muscles of his shoulder, his neck.

"Of course we do."

"And you stole my deputy, for what?" she snaps. Emberpaw is once more reduced to a sideline figure, though Feliks is still determined to share no information of real use.

"Even PureClan hates PureClan," he mutters cryptically. That multi-faceted beast PureClan, a creature of silent civil war.

They try to get more answers from him- or rather, Morningstar hisses and snaps and Emberpaw keeps her claws in place, but they get nothing else out of him, only more derisive sarcasm. Morningstar calls Tornear back into the den, shaking blood from her paws with distaste.

"Take him away," the golden leader says. "Throw him in with the others. His time will come."

Tornear doesn't reply, just acknowledges her command with a nod. Emberpaw isn't sure if she's ever heard him talk before. Maybe it's just something he does in his spare time. He stoops and picks up Feliks, who is by now only offering weak protests. Struggling, he is carted inelegantly from the leader's den. She can guess where he'll go- in the meadow prison, which she's seen from afar but never up close. She's heard the stockpile is running a little low.

"Neat job there, kid," the leader says once Tornear is gone. She looks a little proud. "I have one last job for you. I'd do it, but I'm tired, and well, you know, I'm actually important to the Clan, so I need my rest. Go find my son for me. Tell him the whole pair business with Jayflight fell through. I'm sure he'll be thrilled. Leave the blood on. I'm sure he'll like that."

Emberpaw glances down at her chest, which is rusty with splashes of drying blood. She can't even see the white on her paws anymore, the bright blemishes that have hindered her all her life. "Okay," she says, meekly. She's not about to argue, after what she's just seen.

She runs outside, with that boundless youthful energy that is rightfully hers, for now. She's not quite sure where Strongclaw will be- she tends to stay away from him, because there's something to his brokenness that doesn't appeal to her. That, and he killed her mother. She's seen him around in this particular spot of forest, a place she's learned to avoid. She heads over there, sticking firmly to the ground, because she is still a little light-headed.

It's not far from camp, and she reaches it quickly. Leaves stick to her paws, and they won't come off, and she just knows she'll have so much to look forward to while she's grooming tonight. "Strongclaw?" she calls. His chosen hideaway is a little off the beaten track, and she is forced to shove her way through bushes and undergrowth. It is the smallest clearing, largely occupied by one large hollow log. The whole place stinks of rot.

"Strongclaw?" Her voice is not confident; she has not spoken to him in a long time, and is his brand of madness contagious? Her line of vision tilts abruptly as she is knocked to the ground. She had not expected this and so Emberpaw struggles for a minute, teeth bared, until she realizes that it is Strongclaw standing above her. He recognizes her and shuffles off her quickly, ears flat against his head.

"Sorry," he says, the first words she's heard him say in a long time. "I, uh, didn't realize it was you." He looks embarrassed, and glances down at his chest. As if realizing how filthy he is - dirty and strewn with leaves and burrs- he gives it a self-conscious lick.

"That's okay, I guess," Emberpaw says, getting to her paws, ignoring the fact that she too is now filthier than ever. "I came with a message from Morningstar." He winces at her words.

"What is it now?" He sounds dejected.

"She just wanted you to know that the 'pair-thing' with Jayflight isn't going to work out anymore. Because she's dead, and all."

"What?" Strongclaw stares at her with wide, confused blue eyes.

Emberpaw is of course the bearer of bad news. _Is this good news? I can't tell_. "Well, um, she died today. Got killed. Y'know how it is." _Does he?_ _Sometimes I wish I were worse at spying and better at talking_.

"Thanks for telling me," the calico tom says. "Hey, are you… okay?"

"What?" She didn't come here for an investigation into her person. She's just the messenger after all.

"You're covered in blood. Is it yours, Emberpaw?"

"No," she says, looking away from his unnerving eyes. "I'm fine, actually. I should probably be getting back, anyway."

"If you ever need anyone to talk to," he says, seriously. "I'll be here for you, Emberpaw."

She frowns at his serious expression. "Thanks?"

"No one else is this Clan is a damn conversationalist, right?" he says, the shadow of a smirk on his lips. He winks at her, and then he walks away. She goes back to camp, perturbed, but she doesn't need a therapist. Her mother's murderer can still make jokes. That's odd.

* * *

a chapter

wow

but eyyy strong made an appearance. go strong


	15. Woodnote

Recap: Rhydderch, reluctantly, joins the rebellion of the city. This probably was not a good idea. Others however are less enamored by the idea of rebellion.

_All we do is think about the feelings that we hide_

_All we do is sit in silence waiting for a sign_

_Sick and full of pride_

-_Drive, Halsey_

* * *

The streets are in his veins. It's a network of grit, black water, acerbic and bitter. His is an incomprehensible language, a mess of harsh city sounds, but he speaks it. He is the only one here who does. Some of the queens might, the ones who hide their dark faces in dark shadows, but he only speaks to who is allotted to him. Provided he's in a speaking mood, of course.

He does not belong in this crowded house, where proud family ties are flaunted at him from every angle. He thought of himself as something akin to Rhydderch, once, and maybe that was why he came here in the first place. His cold bones ached for a little warmth anyway, and the idea appealed to him, of course, a reckless vagrant tom with passing interests in the occasional queen. Just passing. Nothing permanent; the streets refuse to leave him, and he never likes one thing for too long. He wants to leave now. He doesn't care about what Rhydderch has done for him, the children he has spawned, the gouges he has taken from the queens' hearts.

He'll be moving on soon. Essentially, Rhydderch has already left too. Tillman's was never the right place for a tom such as Rhydderch, bright and bold, such a beautiful liar. Skah likes to think, in a way, that he is a prodigy. He has learned from the best. And he'll leave, without a whisper, and it is likely he will not be missed. Skah has hard edges. He is too abrasive, many find. He refuses to care.

He is not sentimental, not made for small trivial things. He visits, for one last time, his favourite queen anyway. She is not pleased to see him, for her countenance is not typically of a pleasant nature.

"Hello, love," he greets, as he stops by her cage. She's in the bathroom, conveniently placed on the ground row, right beside the grey one with eyes as wild as his own. "I'm leaving."

Most queens cower, and he does not like their craven helplessness. Skylla is not so meek; she will fight him on every front, and he still bears her scars. "Are you taking me with you?" Skylla asks, blue eyes baleful. She often confuses Skah, because sometimes, she seems to like him. He knows that no one in this place really cares for him, however. There are a few too many vendettas against him at Tillman's, and Skylla probably has one too.

Skah rolls his mismatched eyes at her. "Does that sound like something I'd do, even if I _could?_"

"Why the hell are you telling me then?" she snaps. "Tease."

The white tom just shrugs. He felt like telling someone. "If I die, I need someone to honour and cherish my memory."

"Ah, yes, and I'm just the cat for that." Her belly presses against the floor, swelled at every curve. She's quite pregnant, and they're his, of course. He won't let any other delinquent tom in this place touch her. He's not sure how leaving will affect that dynamic. The Bayard has no use for her, if she won't give him kits. She'll just have to tough it out.

"What about the litter, Skah?"

He gives her a clinical glance. "What about them?" They'll be born, they'll be sold, and at some point in time, they'll die. That's all he needs to know. He has fathered a score of litters, and each is no different from the last. They aren't special; they're cattle. In this way, Skah is the perfect tool for Bayard, a tom who harbours no affections for anything save his own life. It's such a shame that the tool has developed an irreversible wanderlust.

Skylla snorts, and hunches further over her stomach, tail brushing its side. "Nothing. Where will you go anyway, you furry idiot?"

Skah stiffens. "I have a plan, have a little faith. I take it you've heard of _PureClan_, yeah?"

At this, her mouth goes a little slack. Her eyes, always so sceptical, are full of disbelief. "Oh, no." Her doubt is written all over her face, but luckily for Skah, he places little value in what others think.

"Oh yes, love," he replies, and this is it, his ambitious farewell, his final parting moments in these rows of prison cells, and he thinks his exit is fitting, as sudden and unexpected as his arrival.

* * *

Skah's not good with directions. North and South look the same to him, and East and West are just blurry horizons. He has made it to the edge of the city, and sees only roads and distance, stretched out in front of him like a riddle. _The forest_, Tethys always said in her stories. _The bloody old forest._ _Yeah, well, there's a whole lot of forests in this world, Tethys._ He has no one to turn to, no one to follow, and most importantly, no one to complain to. As a persistent pessimist, this bothers him greatly.

Stoically, the white tom pushes forwards. Surely, with all their great prestige, PureClan has accumulated a large territory. Stumbling across should be easy, a literal walk in the park. He aims his paws at the dark green blur in the distance. In the corner of his eye, he sees a river, a flat ribbon of silver and gold in the sunlight. That seems about right. Even PureClan needs water to survive.

Walking quickly becomes a monotonous task. The scenery around him persists in remaining the same shade of green, and the sounds are all the same. Even his own breath in his ears is tedium. This is not the city, where every second presents something new, where every moment succeeds its predecessor with something new. But he does not want to stop. He is not exactly sure what he hopes to find, or even accomplish, by completing this small odyssey. At the very least, he wants to see if the stories are true. Maybe he could even ascend to their ranks; Skah is a wild, wild one, and thinks this Clan might just be the place for him.

The monotony is broken when Skah spots six figures streaking across the grasslands. He halts uncertainly. He hasn't used his claws for a while. The closer they get, the more apparent the blood on their pelts become. They are led by a black she-cat, and blood is splashed all up her front, drying in sticky dark clumps on her chest. There's a wide scratch on her nose, and it looks recent. The group slow as they approach him, and he unsheathes his claws, the old wariness of his street days a familiar feeling in his chest.

"Where are you going, stranger?" the black she-cat says. They stop a few feet away from him, ragged and weary. Only one of their number remains straight and upright; he is a pale grey tom, and his frown does not lift, not even in greeting.

"It has nothing to do with you," Skah responds coolly. It's the truth, at least.

"Well, we don't advise you head in _that_ particular direction, friend," the she-cat says. This seems to be some kind of confirmation that he is at least going the right way; who else but a PureClan patrol could beat up a bunch of city cats, and send them running for their lives?

"I know where I'm going." He is not her friend. Therefore, he's not going to talk to her as though she is deserving of any kind of pleasantries.

"Unless you're suicidal, I suggest you follow us home. You look a little lost."

Skah snorts at this. She's right. But he will not follow them anywhere, because his curiosity has peaked and he wants more than anything to see the monsters of legend, in the flesh.

The black she-cat presses on. "My name is Kenna. I work for Miss. You might have heard of her. You're welcome to join us, if you'd like."

He has, indeed, heard of Miss. He has no intention of joining her ridiculous cult, or fighting for so-called freedom. Skah has always fought for his own interests, and will not use his claws to serve others. He's heard independence is a good trait to have. "Thanks, lady, but no thanks," he says. "I have my own agenda to follow."

Kenna just narrows her golden eyes at him. Skah doesn't appreciate her scrutiny. "Our offer remains. Come and find us if you don't feel like dying any time soon."

"So cynical," he mutters, as he moves away. Kenna remains still for a moment, but he doesn't linger around to watch her watch him. She can't convince him to join their fallible ranks. At least he knows he's going in the right direction. He keeps walking, as the forest of the horizon looms ever closer. The river glides silver beside him, inlaid earthbound compass. When he lies down to sleep that night, white fur pressed into river mud, he dreams of an inelegant place. It is a forest of horrors, stalked by cats as red as the dawn. He feels at home among these tyrannical trees and the beasts that creep between their roots. This is far better than the bleak grey city, than the scrawny ants and their hopeless plots. Such a dynasty cannot be overthrown, not by desperation and will alone.

Skah wakes up in a good mood.

He keeps walking. He's not certain how long it will take to reach their territory, but he hopes he's not far away. He begins to worry he's bypassed it completely. It's not as though they mark their borders with skulls and bones (or so he assumes, because they seem to be above such barbaric practices). Little does he know, PureClan does not bother to mark their borders at all. All the better, to entrap helpless wandering fools such as Skah.

Although he was once used to catching his own food, his skills have grown rusty. He scares away three birds before he manages to trap a thrush against a tree. It is a messy kill, but Skah can't bring himself to care. At least he has something to eat. Thrush is far fancier than his previous diet of rat and kibble. Now he has blood on his chest and mud on his back, but his hunger is sated, and PureClan must be close. His strange fascination with them does not make sense even to Skah, but he doesn't question it. He was getting tired of that house, anyway.

His first glimpse thrills him, for a moment. Sheltered behind a mask of river reeds, he spots movement on the opposite bank. It's a small black she-cat, staring into the water, green eyes unfocused, white paws bright and clean. Her scent drifts across the water; she smells of ferns and old blood. _This must be it_, he decides. He has found one of them, and wonders if he should introduce himself, or kill her. What a test that would be, of his strength and skill. This dainty thing is not Skylla. She will have fierce training, and probably, an unreserved hatred.

But she stands up and walks away. He finds he's disappointed; he has had the barest sighting of a living fable. He sets up camp, makes a nest of ferns and feathers. It's in his best interests to scope out the situation, to see just what kind of cats belong to this PureClan. Skah's not stupid, and their ruthlessness is infamous. Hiding seems like his best option, until he knows how to approach them. So he hides.

* * *

A golden queen comes often to the river. She seems regal, haughty, and she caresses the water with her claws. Skah decides not to mess with her. Sometimes the black she-cat he saw earlier accompanies her, as some sort of servant or assistant. They spar on the banks, a rough melee, and the victor is always the golden one. She is not gracious about it.

Skah keeps his white fur hidden behind a layer of mud. He takes no risks.

Others come to the river; a tom bearing bodies; a calico who has enough dirt on his pelt to rival Skah; a tabby with a scarred throat and heavy eyes. Skah hides from them all. They rarely smile, and only the golden queen laughs, when she has just knocked the black cat to the ground and stands with claws on her slender throat. They train here every day, and just the thought of it is enough to make his heart race.

There is one day where, defeated and weary, he thinks the black she-cat spots him. Her green eyes narrow at him across the river, and he freezes. She turns away and flicks the dust from her ear. He thinks he has escaped- just what he has avoided, he doesn't know. It just seems like a good thing to him. That night all he sees are her eyes, the sudden realization that dawned in them, her narrow glare.

He wakes up on his back, and this time claws are being held to his own throat. It quivers as he swallows. Of course, it's the small black Clanner. He has not escaped her attention after all. He couldn't have known, that she watched and listened for a living. That he spied upon a spy.

"Morning," he says, eyes wide. _Tactful, Skah, really tactful_.

"Why are you watching me?" she asks. She's clearly not here for a chat, and she's not about to let him up either.

"Watching? I don't, uh, I-" She applies pressure with her claws, and he feels them pierce his skin.

"You've been watching me. _I_ should know. Has someone sent you? Do you work for Morningstar, or for Iceface? I've narrowed it down, you see."

"No one sent me. I've just, umm, been watching, for, uh, myself." He doesn't stutter. He is suave with his words. Not today, apparently. She gives him a disgusted look. "I'm serious  
!" he yelps. "I heard stories about PureClan, and I- ow- came to see if they were- ow- true."

"You must be insane," she says, and she lets him up. "Tell me your name."

"It's Skah," he tells her, giving in to her demand. Just because she no longer has him pinned down does not mean she can't kill him. He still expects she will.

"Well, Skah, I'm in the market for a set of eyes. As it happens, this is an illegal market, but whatever. I should be killing you by now, but if you help me, you can live a little longer."

"I don't _help_ anyone," Skah growls, forgetting himself for a moment, slipping back into the skin of his arrogance. She takes a step back, but her eyes remain clear and hard.

"You will help me, or you'll die." He wonders if he heard something in her voice, a small amount of fear. He decides he couldn't have. PureClan is not afraid. He has already seen the dozen moves she knows that that will disembowel him.

"What do you want from me?" he asks. He feels like he's giving up far too easily, but what can he say? He values his life.

"I already told you," she says impatiently. "Be my eyes, Skah. I can't watch both sides of the river at once. You see another cat here, you tell me. Anything happens here, you tell me. And I'll let you live. That's more generosity than any other warrior will give you."

"Is that it?" he asks dubiously. Is she not going to flay the skin off his paw, just to make her point?

The black cat looks uncertain for a moment. "Yes," she replies, decisively. "Don't get yourself killed." She turns to the river, and steps into it unflinching.

"How will I tell you anything? What's your name?" Her terms are clear, her conditions a little less so.

She turns around frowing. "I'll come and find you," she says at last, but this makes nothing at all any clearer. "And you can call me Sable." With that, she slips into the steady current of the river. It takes less than a minute for her to reach the other side. When she climbs out on the opposite bank, she mouths something at him, some words that he barely catches: _don't forget_.

He doesn't forget, even when she doesn't come back. He doesn't see her for days, and although he cautiously prowls the river side, watching for anything at all, there is nothing to be seen. It is a tedium, for a while, until the pair of them arrive, reeking of bravado and the city. She will learn of this soon enough.

* * *

a semi-pointless filler chapter. wow. this seemed more exciting in my head but it's setting stuff up

at least ember's getting a little bit BA now right. heads up the black cat IS ember and not actually sable she just wanted a neat codename

thanks for the 100 reviews guys you know how to make a girl happy

next chapter should be more exciting? who knows, not me, love this winging it stuff


	16. Elysium

Recap: Khia, along with her cousin Etch and permanently cheerful Gideon, escape from Tillman's. They are however not very good with directions, and Khia gets them lost (surprise, surprise). One thing leads to another, Etch's leg is nearly chewed off by a rat, and they're picked up by a meddling interfering Twoleg. And Gideon got left behind, right?

Luxuries come easily to Khia now. She doesn't ask for them, but she receives them anyway. Two meals a day, and a bed to sleep on, and tiny toys which amuse the others. Khia doesn't see the appeal in small pink mice, but Etch apparently loves them. Khia is just pleased to have a nest that's not concrete and wire, food that is not stale and hopeless.

Etch is snoring right now, louder than any small cat has a right to. It's still dark, but dawn must be nearing, because Khia has been lying here for hours, just staring at the ceiling. It's not like she's afraid of the dark, not really (so she says) but she can't help associating the shadows and the gloom with everything bad that has happened to her insofar. There's only one thing she truly fears, and that is losing her brother; she's already halfway there. They've been stuck in the Twoleg house for a month, while Etch's leg healed, and the lost time is gnawing away her bones. They had a mission, but they seemed to have forgotten it.

Khia rolls over and miscalculates the distance, bumping into Andraste's sleek white stomach. The she-cat hisses, but Khia's not sure if she's awake or not, so she doesn't bother with an apology. This is her house, technically, her bed and her toys, but she's been forced to share. Her Twoleg does this a lot, she says. Brings in hapless and hurt strays. Heals them. Takes them away again.

Khia is not hapless. She knows they have to leave, before they're forced to.

"Stop moving," Gideon says.

She wishes more than ever that he'd been left behind. She'd had a temporary respite for a few minutes, when they'd been put into the metal beast and he hadn't been beside them. Khia thought they'd been _lucky_ enough to escape the merry menace. Not so. When the beast stopped, he was there, and grinning.

"Stop talking," she snaps back. There's no love lost between the pair of them, and though he never says a bad word to her, never so much as points a frown in her direction, she just _knows_ her stubborn dislike is mutual. It's obvious in those little quips, his sly grins, how he tells her to quit fidgeting in the dead of night when no one else is awake, when no one else cares.

"Can't sleep?" he asks, blatantly ignoring her last demand. She decided to let it slide. He'll never do what she tells him to, anyway.

"I'm trying to figure out where Etch keeps her freakishly large pair of lungs."

She can't see him in the darkness- the black nothing she is definitely not afraid of- but she figures he shrugs. Not like he'd have a clue anyway.

"We're leaving tomorrow," she says abruptly. "You can come with us or not, it's your choice." In a way, she's testing him. Balancing in front of him both luxury and family, to see what he'll chose. She has no need in her life for a tom who would choose such opulence over his own brother. She's hoping he'll opt to stay, and she'll finally be able to leave him and his ear-to-ear grin behind, permanently.

But they're far more alike than she realizes.

"Of course I'm coming," he says, and she can hear his disbelief through the dark. She will never stop doubting him, but Gideon does not yet know that. Optimism is infallible.

"Well, okay," Khia replies, disappointed, already planning some form of a coping mechanism to deal with his sunshine smile. "Just don't get in my way."

He snorts at this, as though she just made a joke. She hadn't. "Just don't get us lost again, and everything will be fine."

This wounds her pride, but she hides it. It was all their fault, really; no one else had bothered to step up, or lead the way, or do anything actually useful. "I won't. Andraste gave me directions, and I memorised them."

"Swot," Gideon mutters. It might very well be true, so she doesn't dignify it with a response. There's nothing bad about learning, anyway.

"Good night, Gideon," she says softly, acting properly civilised. _What an accomplishment_. She hadn't meant for the words to come out so gently, but they did, and they're there now between them, subtle and smooth, and she's far too tired to do anything about it.

"Good night," he murmurs back, adding, as an afterthought, her name to the end of his sentence. She falls asleep without thinking about it, still faintly curled into Andraste's sleek stomach. She is pleasantly excited about leaving tomorrow, and it is a warmth that follows her into her dreams.

* * *

She wakes up before everyone else. This is not an uncommon occurrence; she always rises with the dawn, so used to the continuous gloom of the basement. Even the morning light seems invasive, but it's still better than the dark. She takes a minute to look down at her three companions; Andraste, flattened against the nest, Etch, curled into a ball with her wounded leg flung out, stiff and awkward, and Gideon too.

Khia makes a small meal out of dry pellets in the kitchen; she's not sure what they will be able to find on the streets, but Andraste tells them they're only half a day away from the warehouse of operations. A mere few miles from their brothers. She's been planning the heist for days; how they will sneak in, slip between the ranks to find Cariad, Thaddeus and her cousins, and they will dash out before anyone can stop them. Victorious and free, escaping a fallible future.

Where they'll go after that is far less certain, but they're not just kits anymore. They're growing- at least, Gideon is, while Etch and Khia remain stubbornly small. It infuriates her to no end. Even Cariad must be double her size now, and Khia worries she might not even recognise him when the time comes. Surely he can't have changed that much? But he's been growing up without her, and she doesn't know what to expect at all.

She'll resort to shouting his name if she has to.

Andraste joins her after several minutes of graceless chewing. "Are you ready?" she asks, and Khia mumbles around a mouthful of her meal that she is. She'll gladly forsake any luxuries she's found just for this, the chance to rescue his brother (because of course he needs to be saved). She can't imagine not being ready, not leaving; it's been her goal now for what feels like a lifetime.

The older cat nods sagely. "You've got to be quick, if you don't want to be scooped up and brought back here."

"I know, I know," Khia replies. It's pretty obvious, and it's clear she doesn't want to come back here too. They'll make their escape through the window; the Twoleg leaves it open every morning, and clearly never suspects it as a possible escape route. It might be kind, but it's not too bright.

"You'll be fine," Andraste says soothingly, although Khia doesn't need any form of reassurance. "That big old world won't look so big to you this time round."

"This time round?"

Khia turns, swallowing, and it's Etch behind them, as small as ever, a bemused light in her eyes.

"Yes," Khia says, in answer. "We're leaving today." She smiles, a rare sight, but Etch doesn't seem to see it.

"Leaving?" she squeaks. "And you're only just telling me now? Look, Khia, I'm sorry, but… I don't think I want to go." She looks away and the guilt is plain on her face. Behind her, her injured leg sticks out to the side and its scars are pink and feeble in the morning light.

Khia had never considered this, of all the possibilities. They set off together; this was Etch's idea as much as hers. "You can't," Khia snaps. "You have to come with us, that's why you're here." Andraste slowly looks between the two of them, and backs a step away.

"Yeah, but…I'm sorry Khia. I'm not going. I know you and Gid will rescue everyone brilliantly without me." Etch looks down to the floor, shuffling her paws against the wood. "Sorry," she mutters again- as she leaves, her slight limp is obvious. Khia feels just as lopsided, as wounded, like a part of her has fallen away and refused to continue.

"Wow," Andraste says, after a moment. "Bummer."

Khia snorts, "I don't want to hear it," and walks away. She isn't hungry anymore.

She goes to wake Gideon instead. He grunts when she pokes his ribs, and cracks open his eyes. The tip of his kinked tail nearly reaches his head. "What?" he grunts, yawning.

"Get up. We're leaving." He just peers up at her for a moment, gaze bleary and confused.

"Oh, right," he replies, after a few seconds pass. "That thing. At least let me eat something first." He stands up, and Khia follows him to the kitchen; she watches him swallow every mouthful in her impatience.

"Where's Etch?" he asks between bites.

The doorway where Etch fled remains empty. Even Andraste has gone too. "She's not coming," Khia snaps. If she's forced to hear those damned words again…

"Yeah, I thought so," Gideon mutters. "If anything can put a cat off their mission, it's a rat to the leg."

"Oh, so you're psychic now?" she snips, glaring at the back of his head. "You can read minds?"

Gideon takes a slow, thoughtful moment to reply, and he sends her an admonishing look. "_No_," he says. "I just _happen_ to know Etch and I pay attention to her." Khia just rolls her eyes and doesn't reply. Let him act high and knowledgeable, for what good it does him. As soon as he's finished eating, she nudges him- none too softly- with her shoulder, and the pair of them turn their attention to their escape. Etch has already said her goodbyes, and Khia cares to hear no more of her rueful apologies.

This is their second escape through a window, and it is just as easy their first. Khia goes first, and Gideon flanks her closely. They drop easily to the ground, and it is good to once again have fresh air in their chests. The white picket fence poses no problem as they scale it, but still, Khia is a little jealous of Gideon's long legs.

They are mostly wordless as they traverse the streets, following the directions she memorised. It's late morning, edging on midday, and the traffic is languid. They spot no other cats, and the silence between them is uncomfortable. _An hour_, Andraste told them_, and you'll find the warehouse. You can't miss it, it's such a big ugly thing. It stinks too._ By Khia's estimations, they've been walking for maybe half an hour. Anticipation thrums in her belly; she's so close to Cariad, closer than she's been for a month.

"Do you feel that?" Gideon mutters, under his breath. "Like we're being watched?" He is glancing around them, gaze skirting over the dark spaces between buildings. She wants to dismiss it as paranoia- but she can't, because as she draws her next breath (to spit out some sarcastic reply, no doubt) something hits her ribs, and she is being knocked to the cold damp ground. Gideon utters a surprised cry beside her, and it mingles with the ringing in her ears. A large paw pins her in place.

"Who dares venture so far down dark streets?" an amused voice asks. She cannot see him, but the tom holding down Gideon looms in her vision, black-and-white and grossly scarred.

"Hey, hey," Gideon protests, struggling a little in the grasp of his captor. "We're sorry, we didn't know." Khia doesn't mimic his struggles, because she's knows she's far too small to make any difference.

"Doesn't matter," the black-and-white one sneers. "You shoulda used your nose."

"This whole damn place reeks," Khia snarls- out of the corner of her eye, she sees Gideon try to shoot her a warning look, as though she could learn to be tactful in two seconds. The one above her snorts.

"Don't give me attitude," he grows. Together, both toms back off, but keep them pressed against the wall of an office block as they stand. Khia gets an eyeful of the other one, a brutish red tabby tom with deep scars lining his face. "You know, we make cats pay for their infringements."

"Okay, we'll pay," Gideon says, placating, brushing his shoulder softly against Khia. It must be meant to comfort her, but she is not scared. "Whatever you want."

Their leers are twins, wide and yellow. "I don't think you have anything we want, runt." Their grins turn to her, and she faces down their hungry glares without shivering. Gideon's eyes are on her face, too, but his gaze is a gentler thing. "But she's pretty. Maybe we'll take her."

She hates being small. She hates being pretty. She hates these toms, and their stupids rules they enforce. _No_, Gideon mouths at her, but what is he going to do? He is, just as they said, a runt. At least Etch stayed away, fled from this mess before it started. She is perhaps smarter than both of them, who have no clue about the streets they walk.

Khia stands up defiant against their leers. "You can try," she spits. Their smiles split further, like ripe fruit rotting in the sun. Saliva wets the corner of the tabby's mouth. And that provokes a certain irony; her steel is useless, her courage fruitless. The tabby sweeps her from her feet again, and she is trapped against the asphalt.

"Like that?" The tabby is laughing.

"I'll get rid of the runt, Pyrrhus," the mottled one says. Do their smiles ever cease? He raises his paw, arrow-tip claws poised in the sunlight, but he doesn't spot the small dark shape that hurtles towards him, hindered only slightly by her limp. An arc of colour flies through the air as she passes, but it's red, just red. Etch crumples to the ground; blood leaks from her throat, her chest. Her amber eyes are bold in their pain, and she coughs blood onto the street tom's paws. He backs away, looking confused, but not guilty. There is no shame.

Andraste follows with movements that are silent; the look on her face is deathly, and Etch is still coughing. Khia gasps, and the wet pavement is there to catch her breath.

"You've made a mistake," she says, in her silky voice born of pedigree and wealth. "These are Rhydderch's own daughters. I assume you've heard of him. He wields more power than you rats could spit at. And he's Miss' own right hand cat, y'know. I daresay he'll be quite mad."

Pyrrhus backs away, and Khia scrambles to Etch's side. "I'm sorry," she whispers," as Gideon falls down beside her. This one, beautiful thread that they shared, the only thing to tie them together.

"Ru's right around the corner, actually. In that big warehouse. You can't miss it."

"You killed a bloody kit," Pyrrhus hisses. "An important kit!"

"Yes," Andraste drawls, her cold stare still fixed on the pair of them. "I might let him know about that, actually." Swearing, the toms dart past her, fleeing down the street as quickly as their lumbering frames will allow them.

All coldness is gone from her as she turns to Etch. But there's not a thing she can do. Not even silver-tongued Ru can fetch back her soul. He'd be a fool to try.

* * *

quality is officially dead


	17. Myopic

Recap: Cariad doesn't know how to say no, so as a result, he's going to go on the worst road trip of his life with the tiny ferocious menace known as Azazel. There's also no small degree of kidnapping and potential murder involved. Well, at least the scenery is nice.

* * *

It's his final night in the city, and the guards let them sit out and watch the sunset. Elettra is quiet, and Thad is not here to fill their silences. It is tense, but not awkward. She leans on his shoulder and the sky bleeds above them, bloodier, even, than a promise. Cariad has never wanted to freeze a moment more than he does now, not even when he left Khia, desolate in the dark. It's suddenly very clear he could die. He is not infallible, although he has been reassured that his death at their hands is 'very unlikely.' Nothing until this point has felt so real, not even the brush of Elettra's fur against his own. He doesn't tell her how he feels, afraid to discredit her, her presence and her words. Surely she wouldn't understand, anyway. What they have undertaken is immense, and none from the Bayard's basement comprehend their future. Cariad was the only one to receive a true warning. Still, he haplessly agreed to this 'adventure', before they told him what it entailed. And he can't back away now, can't find an escape. It's his word, and it's as good as his life.

Also, he's fairly sure Azazel will gut him herself if he so much as looks longingly in the wrong direction. She's coming too, and he's not sure why. They're an exclusive party of two, trained prettily and well, and not prepared at all. Ice still stares at the pair of them with disdain. They were debriefed yesterday. They depart tomorrow. And, in the moments in between, Cariad wishes he never opened his mouth.

The final remnants of sunset linger stagnant in the dark sky. To Cariad, however, it's all over, so he stands up, gently dislodging Elettra's head from his shoulder. "We'd better get back inside," he says, glancing down at the pretty she-cat by his side. She meets his gaze.

"Okay," she replies, smiling, looking not at all worried. He doesn't blame her; she doesn't know exactly what he's going off to do. Neither does Thad, in its entirety, but that's how Cariad prefers it. Better they think he's on some mild expedition. Better they don't expect him to die; he imagines that's how Khia feels, helplessly awaiting the only thing certain to her; his death, and a cruel one at that.

Together, they head back inside. The warehouse is poorly lit, but they easily make their way back to their nest, a path so familiar to them now. Thad is waiting for them with suggestive grins and winks, their share of dinner lying at his paws. As far as last nights go, it's not too bad. He leaves early in the morning, and dawn follows.

Azazel is not exactly great company; neither chatty nor pleasant. They're escorted quietly through the city, and for a further hour beyond that. That's the extent of Miss' generosity for them, however, and now they're on their own. There's nothing more than a few parting words from their superiors to guide them, and their mission that is now ingrained in them. _Follow the river_, said Meino, who accompanied them out into the wilderness. _The river will take you where you need to go_. It seems to be reasonable advice, except Cariad wants nothing to do with what lies at the end of the river.

Cariad didn't exactly sleep last night, knowing he would be crawling into the lion's den and hoping, madly, that he would come back out alive. He made extensive lists of all the things he could achieve, of all the reasons this would work instead. His strength and skill is a large comfort to him, though he knows this does not make him invincible. Still, it's good to have.

Az marches ahead of him, short ginger tail stoically upright. One small part of him is glad she's here- glad he has anyone to rely on, that he's not entirely alone. He's not really one for words or conversations anyway. To have Thad by his side would be nice, but he knows he is about to confront his own mortality, and it's not something he wishes on his friends. _Although_, he supposes, staring idly at the green path ahead_, he'll probably be dead soon enough_. Eventually Miss has to progress _somewhere_ with her revolution, to evolve beyond guerrilla ambushes and unrealised ideas. _She's making an army for a reason_.

"Please keep up," Azazel snaps. "I don't want to do this on my own."

"You won't have to," Cariad grumbles. If anything, he's convinced she'll flee at the first sight of a Clanner, the first touch. He can't blame her; at her height, those beasts would appear truly monstrous.

"Because I will," she continues, as if he hadn't spoken. "If I have to."

"Yeah, sure," he mutters at her back, making an immature face. Already, Cariad is ready to bail. A nice life in the woods doesn't sound so bad; fresh food, clean air. He'd be a lonely hermit, sure, but he's confident he'd get used to it. But he knows Az would pounce on him the moment he turned.

It takes many more silent minutes for Cariad to feel like they've gotten anywhere. Eventually, the rolling green fields turn to a forest of pine, dark and unnervingly silent. The river is the only thing to make any sound as they progress through the trees, their paws cold and noiseless on the pine needle carpet. According to Meino, they'll need to cross the river at some point, but only when they're certain of their target. It wouldn't pay to casually stroll into the heart of PureClan territory.

He hasn't bothered to discuss strategies with Az. For some reason, he's sure she'll just say something along the lines of: _we'll find a cat, stupid, and then we'll take it._ There's no finesse to her methods. To be fair, Cariad doesn't think there's many finer details to cover. Kidnapping. It's very straightforward.

Night falls quickly in the forest, where there is no ample amount of light in the first place. The sounds here are foreign to the two city cats, and even the most pleasant of ambiences makes them jump. These are soft sounds, harmless, but alien all the same. They stumble through the dark until the pine blends with ordinary trees and undergrowth, and deem it adequate shelter. Az curls up on a pile of leaves, and Cariad noses his way under some ferns. The smell here is strange- earthy, fresh- and he likes it. The smoggy city air falls far inferior in comparison. Despite the strange noises and Azazel's restless twitching, he falls asleep quickly. It's the best night's sleep he's ever had.

She is the first to wake, and pokes him relentless until he gets to their feet. They're both hungry, but they've never hunted anything in their life. Az takes to it with an easy grace, but he finds it harder to shift his bulk into a suitable crouch, to move without sound. Noise never mattered in the city, where there were a hundred other sounds to mask your own. Here, everything he does seems somehow amplified. Cariad does not catch any prey that morning, but he tells himself this is helpful, a useful learning experience. After all, when they hunt down their Clanner, he can't afford to step on every twig in the forest.

Az catches enough for both of them, a fat black crow nearly as large as she is. Cariad finds birds are not the easiest of meals, but still, it's a far cry better than rat. They bury the remains under some leaves where they slept. They know enough not to leave a trail, hapless clues. They must be unseen, unknown, unexpected.

They move on, while it's still early. Az takes the lead again, and Cariad is happy to follow her. He certainly doesn't want to forge a path into the enemy's den. He's tired of walking by now, but he knows it's better than the alternative; fighting, action and a probable death at the paws of a far superior warrior. They'll have to be tactful, somehow, and Cariad spends the morning pondering subtle devices, tricks; anything which might work. He decides it must be a trap, and Azazel must be the bait. Cariad may have a tough time convincing her, but he has decided this option is the likeliest to succeed. They won't beat a Clanner into submission through an open brawl; they can't stroll into the camp and drag one out by the scruff of its neck.

He tells her so. She spits at him, turning. "I'm the damsel in distress, am I? The helpless she-cat? Why do I have to be the _bait_?" He winces, and wishes he chose a gentler word, although he can think of none.

"You'd be more convincing. No one's going to be suspicious of you. Me, however, if I try to cower and weep, well…"

She growls into his face, but she sees the voice of reason. Grumbling to herself, she mutters, "I'm going to bite you one day."

He smiles pleasantly at her back as she continues to march. _Can't win them all._

Cariad is confident now, more so than he was yesterday morning, leaving the warmth of Elettra and the friendship of Thad. He has a plan, and this is not so daunting as it might be.

After several hours, they walk blindly past PureClan's territory; there are no borders, no definitions to mark the edge of their land. It is only when they catch a stray scent they realize they have gone too far, and double back, more nervous than ever. Az glares at him, and blames him, but she's scared too.

They pick a spot near the river for their den, close enough to hear it. It's a precaution, they decide, to remain hidden from sight, even if they have yet to spot a single soul. There is an uneasy tension between them, the ever-present weight of what they must do.

"We should take shifts and watch," Azazel says, but she doesn't volunteer to go first. Rolling his eyes, a motion she doesn't catch, Cariad gingerly proposes that he be the first one to stare blankly into the forest for a few hours.

"Wow, Cariad," she says, smirking. "I do believe that's the first helpful thing you've ever said."

He takes the criticism stoically, and Az, bored of him, begins to gather leaves for their nests. Cariad pads to the top of the small rise that shelters their rudimental campsite and crouches down. The river slides past before him, flat and unassuming. The afternoon sun filters through the trees, and Cariad falls for the illusion: what a peaceful place this must be, as calm and serene as it is, so far removed from the chaotic workings of the city. The river itself looks innocent, but Cariad doesn't know anything about these pretty woods and the monsters that have been reared here. These woods have a history, one that Cariad has not bothered to learn.

Hours pass, and Cariad learns this particular spot is not a favourite haunt of the Clanners. He sees nothing but prey, which makes it hard to pick a target. _Tomorrow_, he decides_, we'll go exploring_. He's not really watching, as such, but begins to plan their trap- a grand plan, in his own mind. The prospect of seeing anyone at all fades from his mind, and the river lulls him into a sense of security, false as it is. He misses the movement on the opposite bank, the soft silent steps of another. She is small and grey, containing nothing of her dead father. She has inherited her mother's grace, her sleekness, and walks by unnoticed by Cariad. Only the presence of Azazel standing at his shoulder- with the addition of her claw in his ribs- alerts him to the fact that anything is amiss at all.

"Stop daydreaming, you stupid oaf," she hisses. He grunts at her, but fixes his attention on the she-cat padding daintily by on the other side of the river.

"We found them!" he whispers, anxious that despite the distance the Clanner will still hear them. "Should…should we go now?"

"_I_ found them," she corrects disdainfully. "And no, we shouldn't. We'd never cross the river in time and she'd hear both of us coming. No doubt we'd bring the whole Clan down on our heads." Cariad wilts a little at her words; they've come a long way, and now the final hurdle lies before them, uncrossable. Azazel must see the look on his face, and tells him, crossly, to be patient.

As they argue, the grey she-cat drifts out of sight, further into the forest, and the river masks any sounds she might make. They stare after her, and begin to think this might even be easy.

Azazel promptly dismisses him from watch duty, and tells him to go do something _really_ useful. Cariad wanders off and tries to think of all the ways he could help, in lieu of fighting. He comes up with a few meagre option including gathering leaves for bedding and attempting to hunt. He decides on the latter, and hopes he can find something, anything, to wrestle into submission. He needs the practice.

It's not long before he hears a rustling in the bushes to his right, a restless implacable sound. He freezes and stares into the myriad of leaves, catches a hint of something brown and white before it bursts from shrubbery with a long low hiss. It races away from him, and Cariad, in his shock, almost lets it go. Without thinking he springs into pursuit. Despite his heavy weight and his limited sprint ability, he gains quickly, almost as if his prey is not used to running.

Cariad tackles the creature to the ground, and it gives up the fight abruptly. It is a cat now, he sees, possibly white, though his pelt is largely hidden beneath a mass of mud and forest debris. His eyes are odd, both green and blue and fierce.

"Who are you?" Cariad asks, confused. This is clearly not a Clanner.

The tom spits at his feet. "Doesn't matter. What are you doing here?"

Cariad eyes him coolly. He's bigger than the tom, though he must be moons older. Still, he could overpower him if he needed to.

"None of your business," Cariad says, well aware of how stand-offish he appears. Perhaps he could use a little of Thad's charms right now. This brings a stoic standstill to their conversation, and they both eye each other uncomfortably, hackles raised.

"You should probably get out of here," Cariad suggests. "I don't want anyone in my way, and besides, I think you have no idea what kind of danger lies just over that river."

The white tom bristles at his words. "Whatever you're planning, _kit_," he snarls, "it won't end well."

Cariad tries to bare his teeth, to refute his claim, but the mangy tom has already turned his back and proceeds to walk away. Cariad follows him, at a distance, until the trees turn to pine and he starts to feel a little lost. The whole encounter has left him bewildered, and wondering what exactly that cat knew.

The grey she-cat passes by three times in the following days. Azazel watches her intently, tail twitching in the dirt, and Cariad tries to perfect his plan. This she-cat has a plan, a clockwork pattern: she drifts down the banks every morning, blank and unwatching. Az can barely believe their luck, that someone so hapless could simply fall into their jaws.

The night before the planned ambush, Cariad finds he cannot sleep. He lies awake, and the tiny details of his plan filter through his mind. He thinks of everything that could go wrong: there so many examples it makes his stomach twist. Mostly, the warning of the strange tom plays over in his mind. He never told Az about it, because she'd worry and demand they find him so she could assert for herself what kind of threat he poses. _He's gone anyway_. _I hope_.

_It won't end well_.

The morning comes warm and balmy, and his fur feels slick with heat. He rises before Az- a feat that's not particularly tough- and scans their meagre store of prey for suitable breakfast. There's a finch, a mouse, and something that looks like the mouse's fat cousin. He picks the chubby rodent and retreats to the watch post. They have a comfortable margin of several hours, he supposes, before their ambush. He hopes she won't put up a fight.

Az joins him shortly, but she doesn't eat. She fidgets instead as he tries to finish his meal. Her antics make him nervous, more than any thought he'd had the night before.

"I'm sure we'll be fine," she mutters, under her breath. This doesn't inspire much confidence in Cariad.

"Of course," he mumbles back. She didn't ask for a reply, but she nods anyway, and stands up as he takes one final bite. Together, they slip down the bank and step towards the river. Neither of them know how to swim, but they hope this won't be a large obstacle to them anyway. The river is low now, in the summer heat. It doesn't seem dangerous at all. It is, in fact, a relief to step into the cool water. The heat only continues to build, but it's bearable in the forest. In contrast, heat in the city was sticky and stagnant. It's not a bad last day in the woods, really.

Gingerly, the pair of them wade into the languid current. It reaches their bellies, and then their shoulders, but it doesn't submerge him completely. Azazel is forced to paddle, awkwardly, and Cariad tries not to laugh. They reach the opposite side in less than a minute; the crossing was far less dramatic than either of them predicted. Azazel goes straight to the spot they picked: exposed and open, and with her ginger fur she's not exactly hard to spot.

Cariad takes a moment to pick a hiding spot. He's gazed at this bank for hours, but could never be decisive when it came to this. Eventually he dives under a bush, convinced he can hear voices- it's nothing but the burble of the river. His heart races anyway. At least it is shadowed here, and he blends seamlessly with the darkness.

It must be an hour. It may be two. After his sleepless night, he finds it difficult to stay awake. Just like the first time, he nearly misses her entrance. It's her smell that alerts him, the scent of ferns and dirt and something wild. Her legs pass by his hiding spot, slim and grey, and he jumps, immediately awake.

Azazel starts her act. "Please!" she cries. "I need help, please!" The fear in her voice is palpable, and he knows it's not all an act. There's something grossly intimidating about the Clan cat, even in her blank, placid state. Cariad tentatively peeks out of the bushes. Az is pressed flat to the ground, mouth wide open in a silent plaintive wail. The grey Clanner has come to a sudden halt, and from here. Even Cariad can see her ears are pressed firmly against her skull.

"Tainted!" she yowls. "Tainted in the territory!"

Cariad feels faint for a moment. They underestimated her, the silent grey ghost. They should've known any Clan cat was a threat. Then he leaps from the bushes, because he has a mission, a duty, and sinks his claws into her haunches. They crash heavily to the ground, and Cariad has no time to think this is his first real fight, the first real danger he's ever been in. It's all just a thrill- finally, he has found a worthy sparring partner. And yet they are not sparring.

She fights back viciously, though she is half his size. Azazel helps to batter her from the other side, but there are voices crashing through the undergrowth, heralded by the loud snapping of branches and the panicked shriek of birds. The grey cat snaps her teeth around his paw and he yowls. Something crunches in her mouth and he pulls back violently, breath caught in his throat.

"Run, Cariad!" Az screeches, falling back as cats leap onto the bank. She falls back, grey fur caught between her claws, but he is trapped. The Clanners are a solid wall at his back. He tries to dart past the she-cat, but she trips him and rakes her claws down his spine. Azazel flees without a backwards glance. She splashes into the river, and water lands on his nose, one last token of the tiny fiery spitfire.

Something pounds past him; it's a heavyset young tabby, he sees, as he leaps brazenly into the river.

"Oakpaw!" someone yowls. The tabby does not look back.

Cariad struggles free of the she-cat's grip and whirls around, claws unsheathed, but even he can see it's hopeless. There is a small force of them lined in front of him, snarling, excluding the tom chasing Az. There is a fluffy white tom, a slim black she-cat and a sleek grey warrior, and they all stare at him with hate in their narrowed eyes. Cariad bares his teeth in a menacing growl and barrels into the midst of them. He thinks of Elettra, Thad, Khia. He hopes they never find out he died like this.

* * *

happy birthday to my wifey uriekuki ily have a good day with cheetahs

like this chapter actually would not exist right now without your birthday. it's your crappy birthday present because international posting is expensive

anyway who didn't see that coming


	18. Nodus

Recap: Oakpaw loves PureClan, PureClan doesn't love Oakpaw, v tragic. Oakpaw doesn't know what _no _means though, so much like the creepy stalker Strong was back in TPATP, he persists. Then two idiot city cats turn up in their territory and Oakpaw finally has a chance to prove his affections for PureClan! With murder.

* * *

_Hold me down, hold me down_

_Throw me in the deep end and watch me drown_

_-Hold Me Down, Halsey_

She runs, but it won't get her anywhere. He follows the visceral trail of her fear, keeps her ginger pelt in his line of sight, mere metres from him. Oakpaw doesn't know her name- who she is, where's she from, where she thinks she can flee to. He knows he'll kill her. He will walk back to camp with her blood on his face, her tainted flesh caught upon his claws, and they'll be proud. If he feels like it, he might even bring them back her head.

Cloudpaw had asked him to spar this morning- he was so close to becoming a warrior. His assessments were only days away, and like any PureClan apprentice ever, he had the utmost confidence in himself. However, Cloudpaw wasn't one for sitting and relaxing, and so they kept sparring anyway. They were a fairly even match, unlike the other male apprentices, who watched their tussling and grimaced. Oakpaw nearly always ended up on top, despite his friend's valiant efforts. Out of all of them, he the only one that's really _fought_ before, and now, he will claim the first kill.

Then came the cry of _Tainted! Tainted in the territory!_, and it was sweet music to his ears, a thrilling proposal. He abandoned the training arena and raced to the riverside. It was Fernpaw, he discovered, tackling a large young tom. Oakpaw didn't particularly care about Fernpaw, and there were enough warriors there to save her skin, so he leapt after the retreating figure. Someone protested- Cloudpaw, perhaps, or some uptight stickler for rules- but he ignored their voice. The anticipation was in his veins, and he could not ignore it.

This is his second time out of the territory, and he's beginning to feel like something of an expert. The strange, tall pine trees are no longer foreign objects, although they still unsettle him. It is dim in the forest, and a little hard to keep her in his sights as she dodges from tree to tree. _All the Tainted ever seem to do_, Oakpaw thinks to himself, confidently_, is run_. They've proven it twice now, their own cowardice, the colour of their bellies. They're yellow, craven, weak, and he understands PureClan's collective hatred. Love he can't figure out, but weakness is easy. It's detestable.

His breath is coming a little shorter now. They've been running for a while, and bloodlust is only fuel for so long. Her desperation will outlast his own. Oakpaw refuses to return clean and tired and unblooded. He wants the fleet stranger dead, and he wants the world to know it.

"I'll make it quick if you stop right now!" he calls, over the thunder of their feet on the forest floor. His voice is hoarse and his excitement is palpable. Hunting has never appealed to him so much as it does now.

She takes a moment to reply, and even then, her fear does not abate. "You couldn't even catch me if I were walking!" He merely grins in response. She will not meekly roll over like most of them. Oakpaw senses they will have a real fight, and he will earn himself some battle scars.

He focuses on speeding forwards, ignoring his depleted stamina and burning will perhaps be one of the greatest challenges of his burgeoning career; his assessments, and everything else he deems important, will fall into place neatly. They may even move up his tests, if only he can prove he deserves it. The trees are growing sparser around them, and infuriatingly, his opponent moves as lithely, as easily, as she did when they began this unexpected chase. Reverberating in his ears is the sound of his own breathing, laborious and heavy. _She must be close to faltering_, he thinks, though it's more akin to a prayer. _Screw you, StarClan._ They don't seem to be helping.

For a moment the Tainted is nothing but a sandy blur before his eyes. Oakpaw skids to a halt before the tree she has leapt into, pine needles clenched between his claws. "Cheat!" he yowls, though his voice is playful. She hasn't escaped; she has merely trapped herself, in a lonely old oak in the middle of the pine forest. He begins to pace around the bottom; she has disappeared into the low canopy, although he does not dare to climb up with her. After all, he is a foot soldier, not a squirrel. "Come out and fight like a warrior!" he jeers. "I might not even kill you!" This is a lie, a blatant one, though he sugarcoats his words with a good-natured tone. The leaves rustle above him, and he glares into the foliage. His mouth opens; he is ready to spill more insults, spin more lies. He's not given the chance. He doesn't really see her, as she drops from above, just a telltale flash of ginger yowling as it falls. She hits him heavily, and they both go sprawling to the ground, her legs knocking his head into the ground. His own legs crumple at the impact, and he hears a crunch. _Good_, he thinks, as his head rings shrilly, _she's broken something_.

Oakpaw can't stop the groan that passes his lips. His whole body aches, though some small parts of him feel suspiciously numb. The Tainted scrambles off him, reeking of her fear, though her claws are stoutly unsheathed. He can't bring himself to get up, but it's hardly a bad place down here; though the pine needles poke into his fur, it's a comfortable carpet, and it smells nice.

"Get up," the Tainted growls. "I might not even kill you." Oakpaw just buries his face into the needles and inhales. The aching in his head is incessant. She jabs him with a claw, which oddly, comforts him. She won't kill him as he lies helpless, and probably doesn't plan on killing him at all. She doesn't have a ruthless edge, or perhaps her honour won't allow her to kill an opponent on his knees. "You can hear me," she says accusingly. "Get up." Absurdly, he is reminded of Cloudpaw, who is his designated morning alarm. _I hope I see that fluffy idiot again_. Because he is of PureClan, and nearly a warrior at that, he rises to his paws, although something seems to be wrong with his right foreleg. It hangs in the air, shaking, and tucks itself against his chest. _Coward_, he thinks, awkward and off-balanced, _get out and fight_.

He stares his opponent down, and though he is injured and swaying, she is still intimidated. Baring his teeth in a growl, he waits for her to make the first move. It's something he can't afford to make, in his position, although just minutes ago he was planning their battle blow-for-blow as they ran. As he watches, she begins to pace around him in a small, intimate circle. His head whips from side to side to track her movements. "Get on with it," he snaps, hoping perhaps to goad her into a mistake. "Or are you afraid you can't even beat an injured opponent? Should I break my other leg for you too?" Hissing, she moves to his right, and only too late does he realize she's feinting. He topples slowly, cursing his own foolishness, as she darts around and knocks his sound foreleg out from underneath him. For the second time in a span of minutes, he hits the ground heavily. Rolling quickly, he flips onto his back; she is quick to take the bait, and leaps for his stomach- something is finally going his way. He kicks up viciously and sends her flying, although she doesn't hit the tree he was aiming for. Already, he is thinking of how he will get home, and if this will affect his chances of becoming a warrior early. Will he have a permanent limp?

He climbs unsteadily to his paws, feeling blood dripping down his chest. She hasn't risen, though her chest rises and falls fiercely. He hops over to her prone figure, but now it is his own turn to make a mistake; she flings herself forward onto his chest and knocks him back down. She lands with an easy balance, and places her claws at his throat. His pulse pounds against his skin, and he doesn't want to give up, though the weight of her paw on his neck brooks no argument. In sparring, this is where it ends. It stops with an apprentice on their back, claws placed at various important appendages. No one has thought to teach him what comes next. Perhaps he could escape, if he's granted some miracle, but he's not sure what to do at this impasse.

"I've decided not to kill you," she pants, glaring down at him. "In fact you're going to be quite useful. Get up, and don't try anything."

The weight disappears from his throat, though he does not yet trust her. _Useful how?_ He is a defeated enemy, crippled and worthless, his one true skill now disabled. He doesn't even dare to attack her again, because she will only triumph again, and next time she might decide his life is not worth anything at all. Oakpaw gets up, watching her warily. She might trip up; might make a mistake where it will take only the slightest of movements to dispatch her.

"Start walking," she snarls, so he begins limping into the thinning forest. She keeps pace behind him, and this in itself unnerves him. He can't see her, and more importantly, he can't prey on any error she might make. He'll have to rely on his own wits, his senses, and it's not a promising prospect.

"Is this the right way?" he asks scathingly. She tells him it is, but she doesn't sound certain. Oakpaw takes comfort in this; he might not be the only one who doesn't know where the hell they're going. "Where are you taking me?" he questions. He may as well figure a few things now rather than later.

"The city," she replies, vaguely. "They've kind of been waiting for you." Oakpaw has reason to suspect it's not him, specifically, but any kind of Clanner they could get their paws on. Her partner had been targeting Fernpaw, after all, although that was a hapless blunder. He is most certainly dead now, or close to; at least some justice has been dealt today.

"Who's they?" he asks suspiciously. This insinuates some kind of collective body of cats, and he is instantly reminded of Iceface and the city cats he fled with. Perhaps he was escaping to some bigger picture. Maybe there's something more going on, and he's about to come face-to-face with it.

"You'll meet them soon enough," she says. "Better hope they like you."

The trees come to an eventual end, and they find themselves in open fields. To their right he sees the river, distant and silver, and knows innately it must be the one that winds through his own territory. It's a slice of home, a familiar comfort, and it seems like it's a relief to the Tainted too. "That's great," she mutters to herself. "We can just follow that now." The imperious river gives him some amount of confidence, so he stops abruptly and tells her," I need to rest. My head is killing me, my leg hurts, and I feel like I've been run over by a badger." It's not an exaggeration, but he senses it's the only thing that will make her trust him and his battle wounds, that will convince her he's not about to run away.

"Fine," the Tainted snaps. "I think I can smell some mice, anyway. Stay here and don't move."

He flops to his belly. The sun is sinking towards the horizon, and he thinks he can glimpse something there; a grey smudge, a hint of sickly yellow light. _It's the city_, he realizes, and grins despite himself. This is an exciting adventure indeed. He's too tired to sustain his adrenaline, however, and his head sinks onto his paws. It's hardly the ideal place to sleep- it's open, undefended- considering he's injured and vulnerable. She returns after several minutes, covered in the scent of prey and blood. Though Oakpaw is half asleep, he cracks open one eye. It's barely been five minutes, but she bears two mice in her jaws, and looks immensely proud of herself.

"Here," she mumbles around the fur in her mouth. "Have this." One of the mice drops onto his forepaw, limp and tantalisingly warm. Oakpaw glances up at her in disbelief, though he is quick to snare the dead rodent with his claws.

"First you don't kill me, and now you're _feeding_ me? You're a saint," he mutters, only half-joking. He can't think of any warrior that would show a Tainted such kindness.

"It wasn't hard," she boasts, fluffing up as she settles down to eat her owl meal. "Stupid things built a big nest. I'll go catch some more in the morning." She bites delicately into the mouse, and he doesn't hesitate to rip into his own. He devours it rapidly, and for now, it sates his hunger. He can't help but falling asleep with the bones lying, picked clean, before his nose. Even as he slips away, her eyes linger on his pelt. He thinks perhaps he will be the only one to get some sleep tonight.

* * *

When he wakes up, he's wrong. The sun rises gently above the horizon, still soft yellow amid streaks of orange and red. He stretches, momentarily forgetting his leg; the pain comes sharply back, and he glances down at it in disgust. There doesn't appear to be anything glaringly wrong- it's slightly crooked and swollen, but its appearance doesn't merit the amount of pain it has caused. He hisses, and then glances up, to see if she has noticed his moment of weakness. She hasn't noticed anything at all; she's lying stretched on her side, eyes firmly shut, emitting small snores.

Oakpaw tenses, forgetting to breathe. He can't run, he knows that; at best, he can hobble, and she'd always catch up to him. There's nowhere to hide in the pine forest, and he doubts he can spirit himself away through some rabbit hole. Still, she can track him, and can fit through small spaces much more easily than he ever could. That leaves the river. It flows the wrong way, of course, but it can take him far enough away to lose her, and then he can begin the long unstable trek home. One last chance has been offered to him, and with a backwards glance at his captor, he takes it.

Trying to reach the river, he finds an awkward lope that seems to work with his three-leggedness. The river seems to far away, and his desperation is so vast. He never pictured himself as the kind to run from a fight, but this is simply one he cannot win. Oakpaw can hear his own heavy breathing, soft sounds of wildlife, the faint low babble of the river. It's still too far away. _Stupid she-cat, stupid tricks_, he thinks as he limps. He will forever remember the moment she dropped from the tree, and it will remain an eternal well of embarrassment. It will be a valuable lesson, if only he can escape.

In the dawn light, the river water is clear and crystalline.

"Not thinking of running away, were you?" Her voice is hard, cold as the river, and he is still not ready to fight her. In defeat, he turns to face her. She stands behind him in the wet grass, small and fierce. Oakpaw's heart sinks.

He sneers, "No. Just needed a drink." He meets her glare defiantly. _Screw her_, he thinks. _She'll only ever be a Tainted, and I don't answer to her_.

She snorts, and he knows she doesn't believe him. "Go on then. Drink," she snaps. Her eyes, narrow and green, rest on his pelt as he turns and takes the last few steps to the water's edge. Awkwardly, he bends and sips. It's frigid and slightly muddy, but he relishes it all the same. It might be the last fresh drink he ever has, or perhaps, if he thinks morbidly, the last drink he'll ever have at all. He flinches as the Tainted crouches beside him and begins to lap up water with a small pink tongue.

"Not bad," she says nonchalantly. Out of the corner of his eye, he stares at her, and knows he can't escape now. Perhaps it won't be so bad, but he has his suspicions. Whoever _they_ are, they sound ominous and dangerous. If he was being recruited into a cult of rainbows and happiness, he's sure she'd have no qualms telling him about it. And yet the opposite is not true.

"Well?" he demands when they both straighten up. "Are we going or what?" So they leave, and Oakpaw tries not to regret his missed chance.

* * *

A full day later, they still haven't reached the city, although it is much more than a smudge on the distant horizon. They don't talk much, because for all her acts of kindness, she's still a Tainted. She's also not much good at conversing, which puts a damper on things. Oakpaw can't forget the fact she's probably dragging him to his doom, too.

"How much further?" he asks, unfailingly bored. The city is visible, a patchwork of grey concrete and bricks and metal. They've already stumbled across their first road, and he narrowly avoided getting hit by the large sleek monster that roared across its surface.

"I don't know," she grumbles. "Last time I did this I wasn't lumped with a crippled idiot." He doesn't bristle at the insult; it's probably true."

"Do you have a name?" he asks, after a pause. He's not sure if the Tainted even bother to name their fallible children. "I'm Oakpaw." He's not sure why it seems necessary to offer his own name in exchange for hers, but he does it anyway, adhering to an old protocol.

"It's Azazel," she tells him gingerly. "Though mostly I shorten it to Az."

Oakpaw frowns. He's never heard such an odd name, one without an apparent suffix. "Does your lot all have such weird names?"

She scoffs at him. "My name isn't weird. _Yours_ is. I mean, is your paw _actually_ oak? No, it isn't. I think I proved that when I fell on it and broke. It's stupid." He glances her at in irritation. She has nerve, to insult his name, when hers doesn't appear to mean anything at all.

"My name won't be Oakpaw for long," he replies loftily, forgetting he'll probably be dead by the end of the week. "It'll probably be something epic, like Oakstorm or Oakstrike." For a minute, he falls into fantasies, dreaming of the moment Morningstar grudgingly gives him his warrior name. It's the epitome of his only desires, all he's wanted since he learned of it- he wants it more than he wants his own mother back. He'd probably sell his own sister to become a warrior, but she's done nothing to garner his affections, so that point is moot.

"It's still stupid," Az mutters under her breath. Louder, she says," My brother's name is Beelzebub. It's so much weirder than mine."

"Who named you?" he laughs. "They need to have their privileges revoked." He stops his laughter after a moment. He's still talking to a Tainted, after all.

"Don't know," she says petulantly. "It was probably my mother." He doesn't press it further, for the tone of her voice is dismal. Maybe her kithood was also less than satisfactory. Oakpaw focuses on the scenery and the looming city. Its acrid smell carries to him on the wind. If he hadn't been so stupid, he'd be walking into the city with a swagger, surrounded by his Clanmates, swelling with confidence. Now, he's early, crippled and defeated, fraternizing with the enemy. He swallows his guilt and his shame. It's too late to change anything now- _but if he'd just moved out of the way, if she hadn't broken his leg…_ It's an easy equation. She'd be dead.

On the edge of the city, she hesitates. Az turns and scrutinizes the dark streets, almost as if she can't quite remember the way. The reek here is far stronger; he sees more strange monsters and odd two-legged beasts. It's a hostile place, and he'd gladly run back to the forest and his own breed of monsters. They tolerate him, if not accept him, and he thinks this place won't do the same. He sticks close to Az's side as she sets off determinedly. They twist down several dark alleys and barren streets; dilapidation lingers in the air and clings to the buildings, a bitter taste to swallow. "Do you know where we're going?" he asks in a hushed voice.

"Of course," she replies flippantly, but he can't trust her confidence. She trots quickly across the pavement, something in the skyline in her sights. He follows awkwardly, cursing the fact he's likely going to die debilitated. It's going to be a quick fight with only three working paws. After several minutes the pair turn onto a narrow street; the river is a soft melody in the background. Oakpaw is relieved for this small measure of comfort. The centerpiece of this avenue is a large jaded building. Its windows are dark and dusty, its facade crumbling with a slow and steady kind of determination. Some cat sits at its mouth, staring at its surroundings with bored hostility.

"The warehouse," Az breathes. His mood plummets. He hadn't realized they'd get here so quickly, that he was so close to facing her mysterious _they_. Az quickly scrambles towards the building, and he supposes she thought she'd never come back. He follows at a slower, resigned pace, inwardly reassuring himself that his death is _not_ in fact imminent. He knows it's hollow comfort, because what city cat wouldn't love to sink their claws into an injured Clanner? Azazel bounds up the the guard, heedless of his fear.

"I'm back," she announces, like this tom has any clue who she is. "I was on the mission," she adds, as an afterthought," with Cariad." Realization dawns on the tom's face, and he nods. Without a word he turns and goes inside. Az looks back at him, expression demanding, and he can't help but notice her claws are unsheathed. She doesn't care if she has to bully him into this warehouse, or drag him by the scruff of his neck. She's going to prove she's not a failure, that she's got more mettle than her dead partner. Glaring at her, he proceeds to follow her into the warehouse, picturing all of the glorious ways he could escape if he were whole and unbroken. Inside, it's dark and gloomy, and smells of a hundred unwashed pelts. There's a pile of boxes in the corner, and some secluded second storey protrudes from the wall. Stairs descend into the ground; this is where the reek is strongest. More importantly, it's filled with cats, and many of them appear to be his own age. They stare at him apprehensively as they enter, and a few have the audacity to growl at him. He snarls right back, and it seems to work as appropriate attitude adjustment.

The guard makes his way cautiously up the stairs. Aazel sits and waits, ignoring the tentative crowd that forms. There are some distraught faces swimming in the mix, but he ignores them. He gets it; he's here, and someone else isn't. Because his kind killed them.

"Azazel," one hisses- it's a pretty sorrel she-cat, and she looks dismayed. "Where's Cariad? Why isn't he with you?" Az begins to look uncomfortable. _It's because she ditched him and left him to die_, he thinks darkly, but it's no less true. Before she can explain, the guard clambers down the stairs again, an assortment of cats at his heels. Leading them is a tall black tom, wiry and scared, and behind him is a sleek tabby. A disfigured grey she-cat steps down gracefully, and he senses, flanked as she is, she must be important. His attention, however, is commanded by the grey tom on her right. His perpetual frown is remarkably familiar.

"Iceface," he exclaims. The grey tom glares at him. "You wouldn't _believe_ how mad Morningstar was when you up and left." He grins at the memory, although it's not a great one. The leader was fuming, and the subject was still a touchy one.

"Oakpaw," the tom replies acerbically, as the group reach the ground. "I'm not entirely surprised to see you here."

"I'm not surprised to see you here, either," he counters, for now ignoring the other. This is a small piece of normalcy, and he's earned it. He only hopes Iceface won't let him die; he might be holding his breath, because Iceface doesn't overtly care for anything at all, and they're only mere acquaintances, tied to the fact they've traded one hell for another.

"Azazel," the scarred she-cat interrupts. Oakpaw turns his attention to her, her mutilation. She could be pretty, yet the pink puckered skin on her face begs to differ. "You've returned, and you've been successful, might I add." She doesn't mention Cariad, content to gloss over that small failure. Her gaze turns to him, and she smiles warmly. Oakpaw is immediately suspicious of her genial grin, her soft maternal eyes and the intent she has yet to announce. She might still kill him, smiling all the while.

"Yes," Az says, throwing him a cursory glance. "It was easy." He shoots her a glare- it wasn't easy for him.

"I'm glad," the grey queen says, still beaming. "Where are my manners? My name is Miss." She gestures to the tabby tom and the scrawny black one in turn. "This is Emory, and this is Achilleus. Evidently you already know Ice." Finishing her introduction, she peers at him expectantly.

"I'm Oakpaw," he says, "but Iceface already said that."

"Lovely!" she exclaims, and her levels of enthusiasm begin to grate at him. "Why don't you come upstairs, Oakpaw, and we can have a chat. You can stay here, Azazel, and catch up with all your friends." Miss backs up, and beckons him forwards. Oakpaw glances up at the daunting stares, which would be a challenge even with four able paws. He knows this isn't a choice, and it will be a relief to escape all of these prying eyes, so he follows Miss and her entourage upstairs, sparing Az a final parting glance. _Nice knowing you_, he mouths, but she only grins.

It is a long ascent, coupled with his clumsy attempts to not trip over. He pants with exertion, although none of the others are out of breath.

"What happened to your leg, dear?" Miss asks, though it seems blindingly obvious.

"A tree," he says gruffly, reluctant to spill further details of his defeat. It's not a lie, at least, although he doesn't owe these city cats anything less. The others just hum in acknowledgement, unsure how to reply.

They reach the top after several agonising minutes. It's not too expansive up here, but there's an unrivalled view of the warehouse floor below. There's a small nest of sacks and newspaper in the middle, but he highly doubts that's their destination. Miss leads them to a corner, although Achilleus remains stationed on the stairs. Here, a small gourmet meal awaits them; a sooty black crow and a dusty puddle. Miss nods in assent and Oakpaw tears into it, ignoring the strange bitter taste. He's famished, although Azazel provided plenty of field mice for his breakfast. He attributes the crow's biting flavour to the fact he's never had such a bird before, and is not used to the flavour. The other three watch him, occasionally swatting black feathers out of their faces.

"So, Oakpaw," Miss says tentatively when he's close to finished. "I hope you know why we brought you here."

He stares at her blankly. "I don't," he mumbles through a mouthful of crow. "No one's exactly told me." She stares at him sadly, and he can't be imagining the disappointment in her eyes.

"You've been rescued, Oakpaw. From a horrible place, before they can corrupt you. Force you to wicked things. Make you _kill_ for sport. It's such a bleak life, Oakpaw, and we're only sorry we can't take more of you."

"I mean...I don't mind…" Oakpaw stutters. He kind of enjoys it, really.

"PureClan is a hideous creation," Miss mutters darkly. Emory and Iceface seem content to nod. "It must be destroyed."

Oakpaw can only gape at her. There is no way to destroy PureClan, no possible end in sight. "What's going on?" he asks, although everything is starting to make sense. This warehouse, the assembly of cats, Iceface's defection...the only thing he can't place is himself. They don't want to save him from the unsightly horrors of PureClan, they need him, they _require_ him, for something. He is only alive so long as he's useful. But to serve what purpose? They've already lured one warrior into their midst. "What do you want with me?"

"You can relax now, Oakpaw," Emory says. He has a silken voice. "You're finally safe."

"But we do need your help, you see," Miss continues. "We don't have eyes in PureClan. We don't know what they're thinking, or how they plan to crush us. We don't have a voice in their ranks, one to tell them how beastly their philosophy is. We can try to fight them all we like, Oakpaw, but the key to killing their _code_ is to choke it from the inside. Young minds like yours can be persuaded. It's better than the alternative."

He laughs derisively. "PureClan can't die. If you cut off a head two more grow back." His Clan is strong and disciplined, vicious, merciless. There's no opponent it can't savage, murder, or erase. To think otherwise is a fallacy. Miss is clearly insane, and the others only follow her because, if placed in the right lighting- very, very dim lighting- she's almost pretty. "You're all going to die."

"That might be so. But there's a bigger picture, Oakpaw. I'm sure you'll come around." She nods at Iceface, dismissively, and Oakpaw doesn't catch its meaning until the grey tom stands and grasps his scruff firmly between his teeth, although he's far too large to be carried like a kit. He thrashes in protest, but the seasoned tom is stronger than he is.

"I'm sure our young guest is tired. Show him his accommodation." There's a certain note of finality in her voice, and he struggles harder, convinced Iceface is going to toss him from the gallery. Iceface grunts at his efforts. Instead of throwing him to his death, Iceface carries him towards the back of the warehouse, where there is a dark yawning hole in the wall. Unceremoniously, Iceface deposits him inside, ignoring his hiss of pain.

"It's just Ice now," the tom informs him. "Night." He leaves, and a little more light streams into his new prison. It's not very wide, but he can't reach the exit- at least, not with his broken leg. Escape would be an easy achievement if it weren't for that irritating detail. Oakpaw sits, despondent, and notices the floor has been lined with newspaper and feathers.

"Damn," he mutters to himself. "I guess they'll be postponing my warrior ceremony." And, not that he knows it, they do.

* * *

what is it about sable's children and doing stupid things.

i wrote this instead of my four assessments, you're welcome. thanks for the love.


	19. Paroxysm

Recap: Emberpaw's a pretty chill gal but Morningstar...not quite so much. It's been awhile since the happy couple 'interrogated' a city tom, but suffice to see they didn't receive any of the answers they wanted.

* * *

The tom on the ground is pathetic in defeat. He is the first of his kind, a pioneer, but that did not make his victory any more four of them stare down at him in contempt, and wonder how anyone could be so stupid as to _attack_ them- in their own territory. The wounds on his sides shiver as he breathes, and his own blood is dark against his fur. They have not escaped unscathed, not wholly; the neat claw marks on Emberpaw's flanks burn faintly, and from the corner of her eye she can see Sleetclaw is missing several clumps of fur. The intruder isn't dead, but none of them are sure what to do without Morningstar's approval. She glances at Sleetclaw, the senior of the group, and he meets her stare with a blank gaze; she can see why Oakpaw so evidently loathes him.

"We should take him to the cave," she says, confidently, when no one else makes a move. "Then someone should go fetch Morningstar." Unless, of course, she's already on her way here, hunting down the scent of blood and battle like a bloodhound. Emberpaw glances down at the black tom; barely conscious, he voices no complaint. "You, and you," she continues, nodding at Sleetclaw and Cloudpaw. "Pick him up." Cloudpaw stares at her for a moment, a little defiant, reluctant to obey a tiny she-cat who displays no real power. As the older tom moves, he joins him, gingerly grabbing the Tainted by the scruff of his neck and lifting him. Sleetclaw balances him cautiously on his back, doleful in his compliance. In an awkward tandem, they begin to move in the vague direction of the meadow.

Emberpaw lingers for a moment, staring into the river, the wet indents of paws on the opposite brother is a good fighter, she knows, but that won't be any help if he chases his prey right into the hornet's nest. She can't put it past him to not do something so stupid. Emberpaw is not worried; he'll catch the Tainted long before he encounters any real trouble. Rolling her eyes, she leaves the soft shelter of the riverbank and follows the toms into the forest, Fernpaw at her heels. The two have never talked, not really, and Emberpaw would hardly consider her a friend. Still, she's faintly glad Fernpaw's not dead.

The trip to the meadow is swift; she keeps a wary eye on the Tainted's back, although he does nothing more than twitch. He drips blood all the way; it runs sleekly through Sleetclaw's fur, and she avoids stepping in the small puddles on the path. She wonders who he is, what the hell he was trying to accomplish. His size reminds her of Oakpaw, but he is slimmer; large by nature, scrawny from a lack of decent food and regimented scrapping. His muscles are wiry, and speak of practice, use. _Fat lot of good it did him_, Emberpaw thinks, but the odds had been inherently unfair, as they always were. Within minutes, the meadow comes into view, although the entrance to the cave is hidden, mere metres from the gorge. Emberpaw doesn't think of the gorge, because she knows her father is still there- the real one, the dead one. The brutish scarred tom she had never really liked, the one who harassed her mother without morals. She peeked down once, and caught a glimpse of bones bleaching in the sun. It had been enough to make her sick, at the time. Now she's not even sure if she'd even blanche. It never escapes her, that her parents died here; it's an area she tends to avoid, if just to ignore the memories.

The she-cat guarding the cave is Nettlecloud, Emberpaw notices, as they crest the small hill and and continue slowly towards it. She watches them with grim, narrowed eyes, the mouth of the cave yawning darkly beside her. Nettlecloud doesn't move as they halt in front of the cave and deposit the tom in front of her. Emberpaw dips her head in acknowledgement, but the other she-cat barely twitches a whisker.

"Nettlecloud," Sleetclaw says, "there was an ambush on an apprentice." He gestures loosely to the black tom, who still doesn't move. Nettlecloud turns her gaze to the three of them; Emberpaw stands straighter; she'd hate for her to assume that she was the hapless victim. Still, it's clear Fernpaw is the worst for wear among them; fur hangs in clumps off her haunches and her sleek grey fur is slick with blood.

"What a development," Nettlecloud replies, glancing down at the tom again, scrutinizing him with an impassable gaze. Her muzzle twists, a critical leer on her lips. "Does Morningstar know?"

Sleetclaw shakes his head wordlessly, looking slightly guilty. Nettlecloud tsks at him, despite the fact that she is his junior.

"You've been remiss. You'd better fix that, hadn't you?" Cowed, Sleetclaw nods and slinks off in the direction of camp.

"_Quickly_," Emberpaw says waspishly, before Nettlecloud has the chance. The older tom flattens his ears against his head but hurries away anyway, finally moving at a satisfactory speed. Soon, it's just the five of them, along with whoever lurks in the cave. Emberpaw peers into the entrance and catches a glimpse of bright, baleful yellow eyes, although she doesn't see much more than that. The cave is eerie, and an uncomfortable shiver runs down her spine.

"Was he alone, Emberpaw?" Nettlecloud asks.

"No. There was another one, but Oakpaw chased her off," she replies.

Nettlecloud looks amused. "And he's still chasing, I'll bet." Emberpaw shrugs. It's very likely; she wouldn't expect anything less, but he's not exactly a fast runner.

Presently, Morningstar appears the the edge of the forest, trotting serenely towards them with Sleetclaw at her heels. There is nothing on her face that appears troubled, or even irritated. Emberpaw awaits her arrival with apprehension; will she be mad they failed to stop the intruders before they attacked? That no one had stopped them at all? Were they about to be punished? She halts smoothly before them, and ignores them all in favour of staring at the defeated Tainted.

"He looks like he put up a fight," she muses aloud, foregoing a greeting. "Where is the other one?"

"Ran off," Emberpaw says. "Oakpaw tailed it." Morningstar rolls her eyes in response, as if this comes as no surprise to her. "He'll be back tonight," she continues confidently. This isn't his first trip out of the forest, after all; he knows his way around.

"Good for him," Morningstar mutters, as she rolls the unmoving Tainted onto his back and blanches at his face. Emberpaw scrutinises her expression, but she gives nothing away, least of all anger. Her dark eyes are narrow. "Smells like the city," she growls.

Emberpaw breathes in uncertaintly, and tastes the urban aroma of her tongue. Though stale, it is thick and bitter, and entirely unpleasant. She must be making a face, because Nettlecloud glances at her and snorts in amusement. She mouths, _you get used it_, and winks, but doesn't dare speak for fear of interrupting Morningstar's concentration. Eventually Morningstar looks up again, ignoring most of the gathered party- bruised and bleeding where they stand- for favour of glancing at Nettlecloud, who was arguably the most removed from the situation.

"How many more do we have in the cave?" she asks, frowning. "I want to conduct the first assessment today, and the next tomorrow."

Nettlecloud furrows her brow as she counts. "Leftover from the raid, along with that loner and her kits we brought in a couple of moons ago about...27?"

Morningstar grunts. "Barely enough. We're overdue for another raid, but as it stands with the city…" Emberpaw thinks of Iceface and his enablers, and what they must surely be planning in the city. Things are becoming ever volatile, and she recalls the ambushes laying in wait for one of the last raiding parties. The ambushes that, coincidentally, triggered her birth and the set of mysterious and tragic circumstances that were never really resolved. She doesn't often think of her birth, or anything that happened in the first few moons of her life; it makes it easier to push away, easier to forget. She never had a mother or a father, or a two lost apparent siblings who are never mentioned in passing conversation. During her long hours in the canopies, this topic does not come up for good reason.

"We can scour the nearby forests for rogues and loners," Nettlecloud suggests, but Morningstar shushes her.

"This is not a conversation for today," she replies, sending a pointed glance at Cloudpaw and Fernpaw. "As it it, we have an adequate supply. Sleetclaw, go and ready the apprentices. You two-" she says, turning to the other two apprentices, excluding Emberpaw entirely, "go get your wounds seen to and prepare to undergo your first assessment. I assume you're more than up to the task." Cloudpaw's chest puffs with pride and he scampers off; Fernpaw follows at a much more sedate pace.

Emberpaw watches them go, not jealous in the least. She knows it will be her turn, soon enough, and she's in no hurry to stain her paws with blood.

"As for you," Morningstar continues, turning to Sleetclaw. "Bring some senior warriors to me. The good ones, I'm sure you know who." Sleetclaw dips his head and hurries away again. Emberpaw is left standing beside Nettlecloud; she doesn't really have a clue what the first 'assessment' entails, and she's only ever witnessed the popular fights that herald the ascension into warriorhood. She suspects it's something much tamer.

Morningstar, with an air of resignation, sighs, "It's up to us to shepherd them out. StarClan knows it will take those idiots half an hour to get here." The other warrior immediately darts into the cave, amid pale shrieks of fear, but Emberpaw is halted as she goes to follow her.

"Pick the weaker ones. Brutalize them," Morningstar hisses. There is a smirk on her muzzle, a bloody, lusty leer; Emberpaw senses this is not a casual assault, but an opportunity. Another tom in a den, another mascot, another martyr. More blood to spill in the name of answers. She doesn't dare refuse, but remembers how she held down Feliks in the darkness; she's sure, if she were asked, that she would have gutted him. Emberpaw is taking steps, she knows, but she may only climb as Morningstar guides her.

She steps into the gloom of the cave, and her eyes adjust rapidly. Nettlecloud chases some from one corner to another, snapping at their heels. Most are bunched in the middle of the cave, flinching whenever the dappled warrior comes close. One tabby she-cat lies breathlessly on the ground, blinking hard. There's no blood; not yet.

Ember descends further into the cave, the leader's breath hot on her back. As one scrawny tom scrambles past she trips him and stomps hard on his ribs, ignoring his protests. She slices a thin line across his spine and catches sight of something tattered around his neck- it's a thin scrap of cloth, and something small and metal on the end of it tinkles sweetly as he grunts. Emberpaw walks over him, and is nearly bowled over by a lean she-cat, who is furiously attempting an ill-fated escapade. She is, however, unlucky enough to run into the claws of Morningstar, who tears into her with a tepid grin.

The next five minutes encompass only chaos. Emberpaw soaks herself in blood; some is hers, for her troubles. It is apparent that there is no real skill amongst this group, and whatever strength they once possessed has leached from their muscles in the slow throes of starvation. The dirt floor begins to resemble mud, though it stinks of copper and fear. There is no revulsion, she finds, in repeating the same act so often. It is a method, a recipe, and the grand accumulative total is not quite something she has worked out yet.

Amid the squalls of pain, warriors trickle into the cave; Emberpaw spots Tornear, Thornstreak and Meadowmist, who has not relinquished her interim deputy duties.

Morningstar also notices, and the warriors begin to gather at the entrance, leaving the Tainted as quivering puddles of fur. Emberpaw joins them, feeling a little subconscious of her junior rank. She's the youngest, and the smallest, and relatively free of scars. Morningstar, however, ignores her presence. "Thank you all for gathering so..._promptly_," she begins delicately, teeth gleaming redly in the faint light soaking the entrance. "The first assessment is being held a little earlier than planned, for obvious reasons." Silently, the other cats glance at the black tom, who lies still in the entrance. She doubts any of this has been explained to them, but it seems fairly obvious.

"Distribute the Tainted, as usual. Be creative, if that lies within the _parameters_ of your _capabilities_. We can't allow the entitled youth to simply waltz into warriorship." The warriors nod and move deeper into the cave, prodding and snarling at the cowed prisoners. Thornstreak is the first to leave, shepherding a scrawny black tom in front of him. Morningstar turns to Emberpaw, smiling pleasantly.

"Well, go ahead," she says, as though bestowing a great gift upon the bemused apprentice, "pick one."

Emberpaw frowns and scans the desolate faces, finally settling on a plain tabby with a vivid scar on her nose. She nods at it as Morningstar watches, and idly wonders what she has in mind. She's still wondering as the leader jostles the Tainte to her feet and hauls her from the cave and into the awaiting forest, stepping neatly around PureClan's most recent acquisition. "Anywhere in mind?" Morningstar calls. Emberpaw shakes her head, because she's still as confused as the Tainted. The golden she-cat begins to lead them deeper into the forest, and the tabby starts to whimper. Emberpaw grimaces in irritation at the small and hopeless sound.

Morningstar stops in the small clearing, small dirty puddles underfoot. There is more mud than solid dirt, and the Tainted slips upon entering, streaking brown across her chest. She remains on the ground, staring at a twig bobbing uncertaintly on the water. "Please," she whispers, "don't kill me." Morningstar chuckles in response, although it gives the tabby no semblance of a reprieve. "Death is the least of your problems currently, dear." The tabby exhales slowly, still staring at the water as though she very much means to drown herself in a puddle an inch deep.

The golden she-cat takes a moment to survey their surroundings. "You'll want a good view, Emberpaw. Climb that tree." She flicks her tail to an old birch, and, obediently, Emberpaw scrambles up, making a show of hesitance and clumsiness. Even Morningstar doesn't need to know how well she can really climb. Her canopy network is hers only, and that is perhaps the only thing she is sure of.

"Is this high enough?" she calls down momentarily, clinging to a branch a few feet above ground. She can climb so much higher, and she knows it, but a voice tells her it's not wise to show Morningstar the depth of her skill. It's something of an advantage, she supposes, although she does not yet know why she needs it. From this distance, she can see Morningstar rolling her eyes. She doesn't bother to answer, so Emberpaw assumes her position is merely adequate. Up here, she can faintly see the forest floor through the sparse forest canopy. Morningstar, meanwhile, drags the tabby through the mud as she squeals, and places her roughly at the foot of the tree, shoving her against the exposed roots. The dirt on her pelt camouflages her against the bark, and it is only her white eyes and heaving chest that give her away. "I'd tell you to stay, and it's not that I don't trust you…" Morningstar trails off as she rises into the air, and brings her strength onto the tabby's hindlegs. They snap with a brittle, hollow echo, and even Emberpaw winces as she glances down to see the twisted mess the leader has left. The forest is terribly quiet for a mere moment, until the Tainted shatters it with her scream. Faintly, Emberpaw thinks she hears a twin, an echo, deeper in the forest. This is what she meant by _distributing the Tainted_ and _being creative._ Now, Emberpaw can only wonder what's left for the apprentices to do.

Morningstar glances up the trunk of the old tree, squinting for a moment until she spots Emberpaw once again. "Stay here," she orders. "Wait for your apprentice, and _don't_ let them be the one to finish her off." She jerks her head at the broken tabby, who lies cradled against the roots, gasping limply. With that, she saunters off, splashing regally through the puddles as she exits the scene. Emberpaw settles in to wait, anxiously scanning the forest around her for traces of another cat. She thinks she has deciphered Morningstar's order, and the threat of it looms. Gulping, she glances down at the tabby, who doesn't even seem to be conscious. After an hour, however, Emberpaw grows bored, and contemplates taking a nap whilst balancing precariously on the slim branch. What started as a promising, exciting morning has dwindled into an anticlimactic afternoon.

In the end, it is Littlepaw who shuffles into the clearing. Emberpaw wonders if it took him so long to arrive because he took ridiculously miniscule steps the entire way. He doesn't see the Tainted at first; his nose is close to the ground, and his amber-gold eyes are focused on the mud in front of his face. _It's a tracking test_, Emberpaw realizes, and realizes the way to receiving her warrior name will be nowhere near as tricky as she had previously imagined. She can track and stalk with the best of them, after all. Abruptly, Littlepaw spots the Tainted and flings his head up in alarm. When he realizes she is clearly in no position to brutalize him, he begins to study her, curiously, and the look in his eyes tells Emberpaw that he's fascinated. She wonders if this is how it began for Morningstar- a simple, abject fascination- but dismisses it. Morningstar was born callous and learned violence as she learned to walk, talk. Littlepaw continues to stare, looking something close to amazed, and Emberpaw decides it's a prudent time for intervention. Summoning the steely will she's encountered before, she drops from her perch and lands heavily on the Tainted back with what seems to be the audible crunch of a spine snapping. Without pause Emberpaw pushes her head to the ground, grinding her cheek into the dirt, and rakes her claws against her throat. Blood rushes to soak the ground as Emberpaw raises her eyes to meet Littlepaw's. He looks repulsed. _Get used to it, kid_, she thinks, and steps off the Tainted as she gurgles.

"Took you long enough," she says instead, keeping her snark to a minimum, although she thinks even that may be too much for such a sensitive soul as Littlepaw. He flattens his ears against his head and doesn't reply, but Morningstar saves him the trouble by strolling into the clearing a heartbeat later.

"I concur," she announces, giving her son a dismissive glance. "Even Willowpaw is already done with his, and you know he can barely smell the difference between a mouse and an owl dropping." Littlepaw looks cowed at her words, and shuffles back as the tide of blood threatens to touch his toes.

"That was very impressive, Emberpaw," she comments offhandedly, although her mind is clearly more focused on her dismally disappointing offspring. Emberpaw doesn't mention the hour of meticulous and flawless planning that was devoted to the thirty seconds of violence. _How it would be quickest. How to get as little blood on her as possible. How easy it would be to forget_. Oakpaw has longed for such a moment, but Emberpaw will be glad to move on. "But that will be all," Morningstar adds, and gives her a stare that clearly states, _go away and let me ruthlessly lecture my son in peace, thanks._ Emberpaw nods and scurries off, accidentally splashing loudly through a couple of puddles.

She spends the rest of the afternoon in a secluded corner of camp, picking at a sparrow and watching the older apprentices congratulate each other. _Well done, you all managed to use a part of your anatomy for its correct function. So impressive_, she thinks to herself, and her thoughts are reflected by the visible scowl on her face. This somehow fails to deter Mosspaw, who comes to flop down beside her, commenting about their own looming assessments. Emberpaw mutters in agreement, but wonders what will happen once she receives her warrior name; she doubts she will easily slip from underneath Morningstar's thumb. Perhaps she will be the leader's lackey for life. This thought follows her to her nest, and she has a bemusing dream concerning an elderly Morningstar and her crotchety orders.

* * *

Mosspaw wakes her in the morning, her sister Fawnpaw bouncing on her paws behind her. "Wake up," she hisses. "The next assessments are about to take place." Groggily, she follows the sisters out into the clearing, where a rough ring is forming. Approaching through the trees is a party of warriors, a gaggle of cocky apprentices and in the middle of them all, a cowed group of Tainted, who bear wounds old and new like manacles, politely shuffling as an orderly crowd to their collective deaths. Only when Emberpaw lines up with the rest of the Clan does she realize the black Tainted of yesterday's botched ambush is among their number; his eyes are fixated on the ground, but Emberpaw knows better than to think his wide stare is hopeless.

Morningstar pushes through the assembly to take her spot on the Speaking Hill. "This is where I would normally ask everyone to gather," she says dryly, "but you're all already here for once. Today we witness the transition from apprentice to warrior whilst upholding the vows PureClan considers most sacred. In one fell swoop we strengthen ourselves and weaken the enemy, the poisoned. Each apprentice must fight their opponent to earn their warrior name, and win. Nothing but death may be accepted. According to tradition, the apprentices will fight in age order. Firepaw is first."

Firepaw takes his place in the ring with a confident smirk as his Tainted, a young calico, is pushed towards him. She is rough and scarred, and was perhaps something of a fighter in her alley of origin. Emberpaw smoothly deducts this as she makes the first move, throwing herself at his chest and wrapping her jaws around his throat. Firepaw rips her away, but he is already bleeding, and irate. They tussle for several long minutes, evenly matched, until Firepaw manages to slit open her stomach. Warriors haul her away before she's properly dead, but it is an assured thing.

Pale-grey Ashpaw is next and, wraithlike, rips out her opponent's throat before he can blink. Her sisters follow in similar suits; Flurrypaw breaks the spine of hers, and Swiftpaw twists the head of some poor silver tom until something his neck snaps audibly.

Cloudpaw bounces into the makeshift arena, and his presence reminds Emberpaw that her brother still has not returned. She glances around, feeling slightly guilty she hadn't thought of this before, but decides he must be having a great vacation out in the woods. He tackles his large black tom with ease, though a small scuffle breaks out before Cloudpaw chokes him into submission with vivid enthusiasm. Emberpaw nods at him as he leaves, and he gives her a cocky wink in return, an action that serves to make her slightly uncomfortable.

In typical brute fashion, Willowclaw beats his into submission. Dawnpaw decapitates an old grey tom as she flashes a smile at her mother. Littlepaw, timidly, drags his claws across a decrepit queen's throat until she collapses and then, looking mortified, shuffles back into the crowd, wiping the blood on the grass. Sunpaw has a few flashy moves, and Emberpaw makes a mental note to memorize those later. At last, with the ring a mess of blood and several sections of a renegade intestine, Fernpaw delicately enters, followed by a scrawny pale tabby, who glares menacingly at the crowd. She circles him and makes several feints, all of which he falls for. As he sprawls into the dirt, she leaps onto his back and sinks her teeth into his exposed throat, shaking her head until he stops his wild thrashing. At this point even Morningstar is beginning to look bored, although there is just one apprentice left- and, by extension, a single Tainted.

Emberpaw is not sure of Volepaw's abilities, but thinks he has a fear chance of killing the new Tainted, due to the solid beating he received yesterday. Even now he moves gingerly, contradicting the loose, spry steps of Volepaw. Recently orphaned, he is still the son of capable fighters Jayflight and Smokefang. Concentration is evident on his face as he sizes up the bulk of the young black tom. Volepaw is not small, either, but he has not yet reached the hulking heights of the Tainted before him. Emberpaw throws a small glance at Morningstar; she is grinning widely. This seems to be an acceptable punishment for encroaching upon PureClan's territory.

Volepaw bares his teeth and gives a cautionary snarl- the Tainted flattens his ears against his skull, but makes no move. Volepaw begins a slow sideways circle and slowly, reluctantly, he starts to mimic it. "Fight me," the apprentice whispers, and it softly carries to Emberpaw's ears; she hears in it his anxiety, his fear, a nerve that is a little less that iron. Fernpaw, upon a cursory glance, looks slightly nervous for her brother. She knows too well the strength the Tainted possesses.

Abruptly, the Tainted drops into a predatory crouch and the uncertain rhythm of the circle is broken. Volepaw hesitates, and the Tainted surges forwards, knocking over the Clanner in a single rough movement. For a moment they tangle on the ground, clashing with teeth and claws; grey and black fur, ripped free of somatic restraints, float away, borne on the idle wind. After a brief struggle, they separate, panting, and scramble to their feet. Volepaw bleeds profusely from his shoulder; the Tainted holds his left foreleg gingerly above the ground, where it twitches spasmodically. Volepaw tackles his weakened side, but the black tom uses his bulk to push him away, sending him sprawling to the ground with a muted thump. It descends into a rough skirmish, and their grunts of pain are inseparable. Morningstar watches on, frowning. Perhaps the tom was supposed to die quietly. Finally, with a flare of blood, they both collapse, Volepaw pinning the larger tom.

_Of course_, Emberpaw thinks, sour_, the underdog never wins._ If he had a fair, fighting chance, he could have decimated the other tom…

Volepaw slides off the belly of the Tainted and keeps going, rolling over to reveal his ruined throat and glassy eyes. Triumphant if but for a moment, the black tom stands and spits blood from his mouth. After the silence comes the chaos.

* * *

I'M SORRY.

sooo much has happened since i last updated i don't even think i could list it all but- my rabbit had her teeth removed, my puppy is wrecking havoc on the household, i had my exams and graduated high school, had my 18th (it was really wild trust me) and in the last couple of days my rabbit had a kind of relapse and isn't so well right now but things are at least better than what i thought last night because it seemed like the only possible outcome was to put her down this weekend. so yeah, life happened, and unfortunately got in the way of my motivation which to be honest is always pretty lacking but this chapter has been half done for SO LONG. so i wrote the other 2000 words tonight because this chapter is way overdue and i feel so bad. so here it is, riddled with 2 a.m. typos. enjoy it.

also Brighteyes it is so good having you back I missed your lovely reviews so much! but i am a review fanatic in general tbh

poor volepaw has his first appearance in the story and then wham, sorry kid

anyway thanks it's nearly 4 a.m. and i had goals to get up at 8:30 haha oops.


	20. Requite

Recap: Miss enlists the help of a mysterious marauding stranger. Oakpaw arrives in the city, much to his distaste.

* * *

The dark tabby disappears into the the darkness of the hole with an undignified yelp. Achilleus is a hard tom, and not an easy one to like, so naturally, he smirks a little as Oakpaw disappears down the chute. _Serves the forest bastard right_, he thinks to himself from his lowly position by the stairs. Miss is shaking her head, looking disappointed, and Emory frowns by her shoulder; in terms of pliant, malleable cats, this was not what they were hoping for. Specifically, the gruff young tom is what _no one_ has _ever_ hoped for.

Achilleus turns his gaze back to the floor below; this is, after all, his dictated duty. He's little more than a glorified guardsman, but he has been promised so much more, if he can just be patient. He dreams of it, every night, although his bloodlust shares a painful, illusive corner with the memories of those whom he has lost. He forgets to dream of her, when he fills his thoughts with the impending battles and the true glory of war. He has honed himself; not for that moment, admittedly, but it will serve him well all the same. Achilleus is a creature of conflict, and the truth of it lies scarred on his skin.

He senses Miss approaching him, although he does not look at her. She has a soft presence, a maternal one, yet it is not easy to overlook. "You don't look anything like that tom I found in the alley," she says gently, flicking her tail against his shoulder. He nods in acknowledgement, but keeps his eyes trained on the warehouse below. None of the youngsters have caused trouble yet, but he waits everyday for them to start.

"I am not covered in the blood and guts of my enemies," he replies mildly, as though such a distinction is obvious. That night is still fresh in his mind; the vivid image of Tiberius and Caligula dying as cowards is never hard to recall. Even now, he smirks a little. Three long years of anticipation has only served to make the memory all the more sweet.

"You never told me what that gang did to deserve your wrath," Miss says, laughing. Blood does not disgust her, and she's seen far worse than death.

"It's in the past," Achilleus replies. He keeps it to himself now, as it feels only right; he is the only one left who knew her, and as such, he must preserve her, but not through others. It's his duty alone, and he knows much of duty and service.

"Right," Miss says, obeying his silent decision to drop the topic. "Anyway, that tom Azazel brought back isn't suitable. We'll have to scrap that plan, or else the minute we let him go he'll be running back to PureClan to tell them exactly what we're about to do."

"Not exactly the susceptible young soul you were hoping for, is he?" he asks wryly. Miss shakes her head and frowns; in a fell swoop, they've lost one of their best fighters and dragged home a feral, stubborn Clanner to boot.

"We might be able to do something with him yet," she mutters. "Bargain with him, or wrangle answers out of him…Anyway, Achilleus, I'm giving you a mission, since I know you've been dying to get out of here."

He pricks his ears expectantly. He's never been on a _mission_. The idea is thrilling, although it is probably a routine patrol or a hunt for food. The warehouse is a place he loves escaping from, even for small periods. Afterall, it's dark and it smells, and revolution is such a persistent odour.

"You'll need to scout out the territory. See if Cariad's alive. Look for anything we can use as an advantage. You can't bee seen, is that understood? They'll all be on high alert after that incident with Az. We just need for _something_ to go right, Achilleus, because right now nothing is."

"When do I leave?" he asks, masking his excitement with polite professionalism. If he hurries, he can get there tonight. For a long time, he has dreamed of these fierce forest beasts. The prospect of spying upon them is exhilarating.

"Now," says Miss, a small smile twisting her muzzle. She looks almost fond. Achilleus is gone within minutes, and the forest beckons with every step.

* * *

_Patience is becoming, and he has waited for this for a long time. His memories of Drusilla are not as vivid as they once were, although they are the only thing that drive him. He has plotted and trained, tearing himself to pieces in order to accomplish her vengeance. She deserves nothing less, and those maggots nothing more._

_Tiberius has been so careful, so hidden. Caligula is a stark contradiction, and it was easy to find his gang and plan out each and every death with a gruesome resolve. He learns their routines, their faults, their downfalls. After their evening meal they are all lazy, insolent and egotistic, bragging of conquers and murders and things they've never done, but claim they have anyway. There are eight of them, but this is a false figure, because the ninth is still at large, and he is a rogue factor in his plan._

_He steps into their midst like a ghost. They are all focused on a particularly lewd tale emitting from the mouth of a scrawny tabby with more spittle than teeth. He pauses for a moment and enjoys their last moments. He hopes they know that they've made him into this, and their doom is a fate of their own reckoning. Lepidus notices first, and it is a simple thing to slit his throat. The bulky brown tom never harmed him and as such he is granted a quick death. Others can not hope for the same._

_Agrippa startles as he moves from the shadows- his back is broken, but he is not to die yet. The rest of them become sluggishly aware, turning their heads in slow awe as he, surely a mere figment, strolls into their camp and decimates them. Gemellus is crushed, although he pants shallowly against the pavement. Drusus falls, and Macro is repelled, for he is not allowed to die yet. Lucius bleeds brightly and Julius can only shriek._

_Only Caligula is left, snarling as he stands at the entrance of the alley. He will not run; his bones were not made for fleeing. He is scarred and battle-worn, and thinks he is ready. Achilleus beckons to him and leers. "Thought you'd escaped punishment, did you?" he growls, over the moans of the dying. "Now you will find that no punishment I can deliver is good enough for you."_

"_It was a mistake," Caligula spits. "We all suffered, but don't forget it was _your _fault."_

_Achilleus quivers. His excitement shines brightly in his eyes. He has waited for this moment for so long, and dreamed of Drusilla every night. He pictures her as he first saw her; warm and beautiful, white-gold in the sun. "Your suffering has not ended yet," Achilleus says, after a moment, already moving. Caligula is too slow to evade the blow that rips across his muzzle, but he does retaliate, raking sharp claws down Achilleus' flank. He does not hiss. Every ounce of pain is worth this moment. He welcomes it, even, because he wants his scars._

_Caligula turns, the scene of gore and pain reflected dimly in his blank eyes. Did he always know this was coming? Did he know he deserves it? "You're not the only one who loved her, you know." There is no hope in his voice, only a scathing bitterness that fails to sway Achilleus. He too is pained and bitter, yet such a small dose of camaraderie will not change his mind. Instead, he growls at the pitiful tom._

"_She was my sun and sky, my heart, my life. She was a mere sister to you." _

_Caligula sneers at his words. "You have no concept of family, street-rat. Don't presume to talk of relations you understand nothing about. I would have died for her!"_

"_You will!" Achilleus roars, moving with a speed Caligula does not predict. He wrestles the older tom to the ground, cuffing him into submission. As he tries to rise, Achilleus uses his momentum to fall heavily on his back, snapping his spine with an audible crack. Though the black tom howls in defeat, he does not relent, turning instead to his useless legs, breaking them methodically. Caligula is not allowed to escape, and now he knows it. Now, he turns to Macro; the right-hand tom lies panting on this ground, one eye bloodshot. He's sure he can trust Macro for this job. No one is more unfailingly loyal, devoted to a fault._

"_You," he snarls, as Macro gasps for breath against the cold concrete. "Fetch Tiberius. He will meet us tomorrow night. There is no room for argument. I may give the rest of you a reprieve, if you should prove successful."_

_Macro glares at him; he is not stupid, but his duty is to Caligula alone, and he will uphold it until they die. He has no choice, and Achilleus smirks at his back as he turns and stalks away._

"_Tibe has no part in this," Caligula says wearily. "He took Dru's death the hardest."_

"_Au contraire," Achilleus remarks, thinking back to that ill-fated day. Tiberius had found him, curled against Drusilla in a well-worn crate, the moon to her sun. He had been enraged. That, however, was nothing compared to his grief when he struck her down with a blow intended for the traitor himself, the turncoat. Drusilla had been admired by loners and gang cats alike, and it was perhaps because of this she was guarded so fiercely. Achilleus had done the guarding, once or twice. "The murderer himself deserves a dramatic entrance, don't you think? Don't give the game away too early."_

_The rest of the day is a blur. He has waited so long a mere few hours feel inconsequential. He hears the footsteps as he waits among the shadows, sheltered behind the dead and the agonized dying. Tiberius has shrunken, fallen into himself- he was so muscular once, and carried himself with the air of a king. That air had dissipated the moment his claws struck gold. Caligula bristles upon seeing him. He is shrieking within moments, and Achilleus steps in, savouring the terrified recognition on Tiberius' face. "Ahh," says the scrawny tom, and Achilleus grins as he rips into him. The rest is bloodshed and damn, he wishes he never washed it off._

Achilleus opens his eyes, slowly dipping into a languorous stretch as he yawns. It's one of his favourite dreams, reliving the brutal deaths of his enemies. Tranquil forest sounds surround him, and he peers across the gorge to the meadow the flourishes in the dawn. He arrived last night and bedded down quickly, taking care to hide himself amid the dark flowering bushes on the outskirts of the forest. He'd had to cross a river navigate a shallow portion of the gorge, but it had been the safest approach; according to Ice, Clanners don't bother to come here, and it's all to his advantage.

He rises to his full height and gives his surroundings a cursory glance. There's nothing to see, really; a few trees, a bird or two, shrubs. He supposes all the action is on the other side of the gorge. He hunts down a mouse to start his day- they're in abundance here, and are far superior to the scrawny city variety. He's always been an adept scavenger, but the masses of prey living in the forest make it easy. Achilleus now sees why the Clanners keep it all to themselves. He could easily join their number, if not for the fact they habitually murdered their houseguests.

Yawning, he wanders a little closer to the ravine, still carefully submerged in shadows. There's nothing to see in the meadow, he thinks lazily, just long grass- until he spots motion in the corner of his vision, and sees his first _real_ warrior. He is bulky, grey, imposing, guarding the dark mouth of an underground cave. Achilleus ducks into a cautious crouch, narrowing his yellow eyes. The Clanner doesn't move, staring solemnly across the meadow to nothing in particular. Though his pelt is scarred, he looks nothing like a monster, a legendary beast, and Achilleus is slightly disappointed. He turns his gaze instead to the cave; Ice has mentioned it, briefly, to the visible horror of Miss. From her reaction, he's gathered that it's where 'their kind' are kept. Still, perhaps if they can dispatch the guard, free the prisoners...they may be of some use in the final climax.

Achilleus continues to watch the sombre tom as the morning drags on. Small muted noises alert him to the presence of more Clanners as they glide from the trees into the meadow. There are four; a small black she-cat, a grizzled tabby tom with a scarred throat, and a lanky ginger tom that lags behind the rest. At their head is a sleek golden she-cat, a molten creation, a dark flame of consummate danger. His breath creeps from his lungs at the sight of her, and he almost fears she can hear the sound. Her predatory grace rivals his quicksilver elegance, her severity to his brute charm. The others are well aware of her power, and with good reason, although Achilleus has not yet seen it justified.

As if of the same thought, they move as one towards the cave, where the warrior on guard inclines his head and steps aside. They all disappear inside, though the ginger tom appears reluctant. Achilleus pricks his ears, in vain; he can hear nothing from here, save the wind whispering among the long stalks of summer grass. Gritting his teeth, he waits, and they reappear several seconds later, with a battered black tom in tow who appears bafflingly familiar. After a moment, a second of confused squinting, he realizes who it is; Cariad, not dead, just cowed and defeated. Achilleus does not yet realize this tom has, in fact, been victorious, and this is his triumphal march. Wide-eyed, he watches as they hustle him from the meadow, treating him with wariness and bemusement and perhaps a residual trace of disgust.

_He is a prisoner_, Achilleus thinks, the only conclusion he can logically reach, _and he is about to die._

As the rest of the group disappear back into the forest, the golden queen lingers on the threshold, gazing out across the meadow with a contemplative expression; on her, it is a cold and caustic look. He freezes where he stands, eyes now narrowed to slits. He feels like prey, and it is a sensation he has become accustomed too. It's not enjoyable, but it _thrills_ him. He has not known such danger in years, hasn't met anyone he could not murder. Yet this forest creature of golden splendour is decisively different.

The golden queen turns slowly, eyes sweeping the dark forest on the opposing side of the gorge. They are a deep bronze-amber, hawk-like, haughty and high and thirsty. He freezes; he has studied these eyes, worshipped their burning gaze. Drusilla's eyes have been fixed firmly onto this stranger's face, though it confounds plausibility. He sees them even now, dead and barren. He thinks he gasps, perhaps, or makes a small sound of discontentment, because she stiffens, statuesque as she glares into the shadows. Achilleus' heart stutters as he closes his eyes; he could have sworn it had stopped, had rusted, but he hopes its frail pulse does not give him away. For a long lingering moment, his eyes remain tightly closed. She isn't there when he opens them, but he no longer trusts his safety on this side of the gorge.

As quickly as he came, he flees. It is an ugly feeling.

* * *

I don't think your concept of familial love is so hot either caligula

anyway here's an icky chapter for you

i also wrote and posted a sable-strong au which is called soliloquize and is probably the ending you all hoped for but never got


	21. Esperance

Recap: Khia and Gideon left Etch to be a housecat, which didn't work out, because she died about an hour later. Heroic intent= sacrifice, learnt the hard way by the trio turned duo. Still, it can't get much worse, right?

* * *

_We're dying with every step we take_

_We're dying with every breath we make_

_And I'll fall in line_

-March To The Sea, Twenty One Pilots

* * *

The warehouse is an imposing creation. Tall and stark, plainly unwelcoming, tt does not impress Khia, but there is very little that can sway her mood now. She has a mission, a self-assigned quest, and she must complete it. She has no other choice, now that Etch is dead, and she is the one responsible. They left her in the alley, resting on a bed of weeds and flowers, wreathed in her own blood and the consequences of heroism. Shoulder-to-shoulder, Andraste and Gideon stand beside her, both solemn and grave. Gideon's kinked tail twitches fitfully in the breeze, his sunny optimism shattered. He has not yet bothered to lick her blood from his chest, or perhaps he keeps it like a badge, a persevering echo. One final, bloody momento. She wishes she had the same. The guard at the door simply stares at them as they stand unmoving, staring with vacant eyes at the warehouse of rebellion and revenge.

"Can I help you?" she asks, levelling them with a flat stare. Her bored tone indicates she would rather not.

Andraste steps forward, shrugging the misery from her shoulders. "They're here to join your ruddy cause, actually, though I've no clue why." She flicks her tail to the two of them. Khia remembers the plan, but vaguely, as if she concocted it years ago. _Infiltrate, agglomerate, liberate_. The details are hazy; she's no longer sure how to escape, and wonders if they even should. Despite the looming rebellion, the warehouse suddenly seems a far safer place than the streets. Perhaps that's a problem for tomorrow; she wants to eat, sleep, forget today happened. It doesn't seem like an easy task.

The grey tabby scrutinizes them; Gideon, growing into a strapping young thing, seems to stand up to standards, but her green eyes linger skeptically on Khea. To make up for her lack of brawn or physical assets, she glares fiercely at the lean she-cat.

"Okay," the tabby sighs, reluctantly rising to her feet. "Follow me." She enters the looming warehouse door and Andraste follows without pause. Khia mimics her confidence, and Gideon trails behind them. Once they enter, the silhouettes of many shapes become apparent. As her eyes adjust to the gloom, she sees most are mock-fighting, while some rest on the sidelines and egg the others on. A few stop to stare at them, but the majority carry on, and Khia flinches at every snarl, every howl and hiss. Gideon notices, and presses his shoulder reassuringly to hers. For some reason she can't bring herself to shrug it away. Leaning against him, ignoring the fact she will probably regret it, she scans the shadowed crowd for her brother, but finds no trace.

The grey tabby halts at the stairs and nods at a shadowed silhouette guarding the top. In turn, it stands and disappears into the inky blackness behind it. As they wait, stewing in uncertainty, Andraste turns to them and smiles softly. "You know I can't stay with you," she says, sounding simultaneously guilty and relieved. "My human means well, and I can't really leave her, she'd be distraught-"

"We understand," says Gideon. He doesn't have it in him to hold a grudge, although Khia feels small flickers of resentment towards the pretty housecat- who is she to send them off into jeopardy without a word, guiding her cousin to her death and then abandon them? Yet she understands, in an infinitesimally small way. She wouldn't leave her brother for a hollow rebellion, a fate of humiliation and doom, a guaranteed and inexorable defeat. It is a fool's quest, and Andraste is no fool. Khia nods along with Gideon's words; she understands, but she doesn't have to like it. Still, once she finds Cariad she'll no longer need Andraste, so her feelings right now are moot.

"I know you do," Andraste replies; the guilt hasn't left her face, not completely. "I felt like I should explain."

"Andraste?" The voice that echoes over her sleek white shoulder is entirely unexpected, wholly familiar, intimately out-of-place. Andraste turns abruptly, and Khia is immediately hidden behind her, although Gideon is still visible. Khia stiffens immediately, regret and resentment crawling over her pelt like flies. Gideon's gaze flicks to her face, and she sends him a look of panic in return.

"Rhydderch," the housecat returns dryly. "I'd heard you'd joined the cause. I can't fathom why." Behind Andraste, Khia tenses; she had no idea Ru was a part of this cultish revolution; he'd seemed firmly opposed to the idealism that encompassed the rebellion, front and center. _PureClan is good for business_, he'd said once, when she was not supposed to be listening. She hadn't known at the time who exactly PureClan were, but it is glaringly obvious now. She glares at the floor; Ru is not often known for his hypocritical tendencies, but she thinks now there's more to him than ever met _her_ eye.

"A favour was called in," he says gruffly, sounding not at all happy about it. Khia wonders what kind of favour could possibly compel him to join this ill-matched army, this errant rag-tag group. Perhaps Cariad plays a part, she thinks with hope. Since he can no longer protect her, he may have turned to her brother. Promptly, she will be proven very wrong. "What are _you_ doing here, anyway? I never would have taken you for a rebel."

Derisively, Andraste snorts. "Of course not. I'm dropping off Gideon here. He's come to find his brother." Perceptively, Gideon straightens, and Khia imagines Ru is giving him a careful once over. Will he recognize him? Anyone with such a messed up tail is bound to draw attention, and keep it. He's likely staring at the blood on his chest, and wondering how he came by it; he can't know it's his daughter's, that she died for a reason Khia can't quite comprehend. She wishes he'd been there; his very name could have driven those thugs from the alley, saved her when Khia had not known she'd needed saving at all. For a moment, she pictures Rhydderch dying in Etch's place. It seems right, a satisfying compromise. She is almost irked that this version of events has not come to be, not when it placates so many wrongs.

Rhydderch must have completed his cursory inspection, and addresses Gideon in a warm manner, "I hope you find him, kid." His tone oozes likability, hospitality and only Khia seems to be able to tell it's _not real_. She'd always believed his silver tongue, his honeyed voice, but the days of her own gullibility have fallen far behind her. She can't stand that voice anymore, can't stomach the lies it spoonfed her, crafted and woven to apocryphal perfection. Gideon can't seem to detect his well-hidden apathy, and nods gratefully at his words. Ever the incessant flirt, Ru turns his attention back to the she-cat in front of him. "You won't stay, will you?" he asks, playfully light. Khia wrinkles her nose; she doesn't like this facet of Ru, the enticing philanderer, the tom who displays his libido as proudly as battlescars. It only serves to remind her how flawed he truly is; it reminds her he is the one who lured Arrah into her caged, and deigned to do the same to her.

"No," Andraste scoffs, though somehow she mirrors his tone, "not even for you, Ru."

She can hear his smile in his voice; the whole exchange makes her feel like gagging. She doesn't, because it never does any good to gag when trying to hide from someone you're trying to avoid.

"Fair enough," Ru replies affably. "We're all doomed anyway."

Andraste shifts uncomfortably; she must be seeking some way out of this one-sided conversation. Khia exhales silently, closing her eyes; she's been through hell today, and it doesn't appear like she's getting out anytime soon. "What are you really doing here, Rhydderch?" she asks lowly, glaring at him with all the fierceness she can muster as she shoulders past Andraste. Given her tiny size, it's actually an impressive amount. A small army of emotions flicker on his face, but his shock is broadly apparent, along with his unveiled rage.

"You," he breaths, looking murderous. Khia gulps, but stands her ground- she won't run from him, this creature who needs a cage to contain what he can't handle. In between one moment and the next, he sweeps her to him with a foreleg, crushing her to his chest as he presses as mollifying lick to her dusty forehead. She can feel him shaking, imperceptibly, slight tremors that pass from his body to hers. "I thought I'd lost you, Spots." She tries not to flinch at the mention of her old nickname, the only affectionate term anyone has ever thought to grant her. Even as he says it, she can hear his angry voice, growling that she _is safe, right _here. She will never forget his palpable fury, the way he intended to keep her caged and fettered in a rotting house, brimming with corruption and a misery so absolute it will never be washed from its walls.

"Who says you haven't?" she snaps, pushing back and glaring up at him. The shock is still abject on his face, although she can see a discernable confusion in his eyes. There's a dull pain in her chest, as though she doesn't want to her him, to see her pain reflected in his gaze, but she ignores it.

Rhydderch flattens his ears against his head, the picture of a thoroughly abashed tom. "I never should have put you in a cage. All I could think about was keeping you safe, and the frontlines of a rebellion is the most _dangerous_ place you could ever be. I hope I can earn your forgiveness, if not your trust-"

"Maybe if you could see past your ridiculous sense of _duty_," Khia spits, watching him flinch at every word, "then Etch might not have died!" Gideon inhales sharply behind her, and she can feel Andraste radiating with disapproval. She ignored the pair in favour of watching Ru shrink in on himself, looking bewildered. There is perhaps guilt there, too, if she cares to look hard enough. Finally, the blood on their pelts must make unassailable sense. After a moment, Ru stands straight again and matches her glare with a look of withering consternation.

"If you hadn't been so insistent on your foolhardy mission, Etch wouldn't have died either," he replies coldly. "Anyone could see it was flawed and irresponsible, but you just had to do it anyway. I was given a task, and that meant keeping you alive. If you have a problem with it, take it up with your parents."

Khia's ears perk up at the mention of her mysterious parentage despite herself. Rhydderch notices and smirks wryly with a distant sort of humour.

"Your parents left you in my care, Khia. I am _in charge_ of you."

She can't help herself. "Why?" she blurts, recalling what little she knows of her origin. _Her name was Sablefrost of PureClan_. That is it, that meagre title, a pittance. She only knows a name, and that is perhaps all she will ever discover.

"You're illegitimate. Keeping you would have resulted in your death, Sablefrost's death, Smokefang's death…"

Just as he begins to vaguely piece it together, a small party descends down the stairs. At their head is a dainty scarred she-cat- the one she saw at the Bayard's, the one who clinically picked a child legion and left as quickly as she came. Her eyes had passed over her with such dismissive finality; she remembers how small she had felt, not even suitable to die. Beside her is the charismatic tom and the grey guard. As they reach the foot of the stairs, Miss steps forward and smiles brightly. Her gaze is centered on Gideon, and Khia bristles with irritation.

"Hello," she says, smooth and practiced. "It is with gratification that I accept anyone into our company. I heard you are asking to join. What is your name?"

"Err...Gideon," says Gideon. He looks a little unnerved.

"We gladly welcome you to the rebellion, Gideon," she says warmly, disarming in a manner that could make most cats forget they had just accepted their death warrant.

"I'm here too," Khia snaps, visibly ruffled. At this, Miss glances down, bemused, at this tiny scrap of fur she had failed to notice. If anything, she looks amused.

"You seem a little young, dear," she murmurs, as though speaking to an infant.

"I'm not," she retorts, puffing out her chest in an effort to look taller. It will not bode well to have overcome all previous obstacles and fail and the finale because of her diminutive _size_.

Behind her, Andraste chuckles and remarks, "She's not, trust me. She's smart and quick, and I've never met a feistier creature." Miss still seems unconvinced, but she shrugs at Andraste's words and quirks her mouth in a sardonic line.

"Okay," she relents, "do what you want." That amused flicker in her eyes does not die away.

_Oh, I will_, Khia thinks, a little ominously. _You'll see soon._ Ru looks dismayed, but does not voice a complaint, and this in itself offends Khia. _You care enough about me to imprison me, but not rescue me from a doomed army? Suit yourself. _After this, she does not plan to talk to him again, and she could care less if he dies at the claws of PureClan. So she thinks, but that dull pain is still there, coupled with the fresh wound of Etch's death. It's a scar she'll bear until she dies, although she may not be waiting long.

"Follow me," the grey guard says, flicking her tail before starting to wend her way through the crowd of street rogues and bought soldiers alike. Khia and Gideon share a long look with Andraste, whose soft smile is bittersweet.

"Good luck," she whispers, touching noses with both of them. She is a pure cat, clean and unmarred, and Khia is suddenly glad she will not partake in this bloody war.

"Goodbye," Gideon says in return, and Khia nods. In unison, they turn and follow the guard, winding their way through a strange crowd, ignoring curious looks and inquisitive comments. Soon enough they reach the opposite wall of the warehouse. Grates have been pushed aside to form a system of nests and burrows. It is a cosy space, lined with old newspapers and sparse towels. Khia's nose twitches; a familiar scent lingers here, sending excitement fluttering down her spine. _Cariad_. He has been here, although the scent seems a little stale. She wonders what he'll say, when he recognizes her. It occurs to Khia that he might be mad; she has risked herself in so many ways, courted danger after danger. Khia dismisses the thought with ease. She cannot imagine him being anything but happy, ecstatic, thrilled.

"You can sleep here," the guard says, pointing down at a generous compartment. Others must sleep here, a thought not agreeable to Khia. She can't abide snoring. "You'll start training in the morning. It might be a good idea to make friends. It's a lonely place without them." With that parting remark, she strolls away, leaving the pair to their own devices. Gideon glances down at their new living arrangements before hopping into it, settling in a corner. Khia follows wordlessly, for a lack of anything better to do. She may as well formulate some new plots, or refine her old one.

"What are we gonna do?" he mutters as she crouches beside him.

"Find my brother, your brother...Ruari and Brine too," she whispers; the mention of her cousins sticks unpleasantly in her throat, but she pushes it out anyway. She can't leave them here, even if it's only for Etch. "And then we get the hell out. Sound good?"

Gideon grins for a moment. "Sure thing, boss." His smile fades; the antidote for his incurable optimism, she's discovered, is merely the death of a friend. She wonders if there was perhaps more to their relationship, a hidden level Khia never noticed. Maybe their rapport was more affectionate than she ever realized, but she understands- Etch was simply _lovable_, in a way Khia can never imitate. She considers asking him, but the pain seems too raw, and she suspects Etch is a topic neither of them wish to broach right now.

"I'm glad you're with me," she says instead, a sentence she suspects neither of them ever expected to hear. Khia glances at him, and finds an inscrutable look in his green eyes.

Before he can reply, a cat jumps down into the the nest and blinks a little as she spots them. "Oh," she says, realization dawning on her face, "you must be the new guys, right? I'm Brava." She seems friendly enough, but Khia leaves the talking to Gideon, once again.

"We are," Gideon replies. "This is Khia, and I'm Gideon." As the words leave his mouth, two more cats descend into the compartment. The first is a pretty sorrel she-cat, delicate despite her slight musculature. Still, she is larger than Khia. The next is a bright ginger tom, lean and handsome. Her mouth goes dry as his eyes land on her face- they're an ardent, luminous blue. As quickly as his gaze fell on her, it moves on.

"Gideon?" he exclaims, disbelief evident. He freezes where he stands.

"Thaddeus!" Gideon cries, grinning widely. He rushes forward, leaving Khia bereft in her corner, and collides with the handsome tom. Their sibling similarities are muted, and not entirely obvious, but Khia can easily see they're brothers. "I can't believe I found you right away!" The pair laugh and tussle half-heartedly, while the she-cats watch on with mild confusion. After a minute of jubilant wrestling, they stand up and shake dust from the fur.

"This is Elettra, and I see you've met Brava," Thaddeus says, gesturing to his sorrel companion. "This is my brother," he proclaims, and the others nod in sudden understanding. "And you are?" he asks, turning his gleaming gaze back to Khia; she is unnerved under his attention, although she does not know why. Surely nothing should faze her by now, but the charisma he exudes unsettles something in her stomach.

"Khia," she says, sounding, if possible, gruffer than ever. She winces internally. Gideon glances at her with puzzlement, but she ignores him in favour of staring at Thaddeus.

"Call me Thad," he says winningly, giving her the barest of smiles. Her stomach flutters in response, and she schools her features into disinterest, although she can't tell if it works. _Get a grip_, she scolds_, you just met the guy. He's pretty handsome thou- no, Khia, no_.

"I'm looking for someone," she says, reminding herself of her mission. "My brother. His name is Cariad."

This elicits a grin. "We know him, don't we, Elettra?" he says, glancing knowingly at the sorrel she-cat; in return she flattens her ears against her head as though flustered. Khia can see there's something at play here, yet the reality eludes her. As she ponders the telltale gesture, it's abundantly, abruptly obvious; while she has laboured to get to him, to save him, Cariad has settled in nicely. He hasn't worried in the slightest about her. Instead, he's just replaced her. Khia feels crushed. She has thought of nothing but him, but the opposite is clearly not true. _Perhaps he won't want to leave at all. Maybe he won't even want to see me_.

Oblivious, Thad continues. "He's a good friend, but you won't find him here anymore. They sent him on a mission to PureClan, but only his partner came back. She said they got him."

Breathing becomes a difficult task as the enormity of his words hit her. She's too late; he's already gone, and likely dead. Gideon stares at her with pity and moves to press his muzzle against her shoulder, but she flinches aside. She will not take his sympathy, not when his own brother stands right at his side. Failure is not a new concept, but it stings all the same. It's just another to add to her list: failed Arrah, failed Etch, failed Cariad. If Gideon sticks around much longer she'll probably fail him too.

"That doesn't mean anything," Gideon whispers, for her ears only. "We can still find him. Still rescue him."

"There's no rescuing the dead," she bites back.

As she says it, venom colouring her words, there is a commotion above them. Desperate for a reprieve, an excuse to forget, Khia sticks her head out of the nest to see two figures descending the stairs. The larger one hobbles, as though his leg is not in working order. Thad appears beside her and follows her gaze. "That's the Clanner," he says with detached interest. "The one Az brought back instead of your brother."

"Maybe he knows something," Gideon adds, already clambering out of the nest. There's a small group gathering at the bottom of the stairs, watching the limping tom as if he is some kind of exotic exhibit. Khia follows, struggling to climb out of the drainage; Thad gives her a helpful boost with her shoulder, although it makes her ears burn in embarrassment. With a mortified _thanks_ she scrambles after Gideon. She can see the enmity on the Clanner's face as they draw near, as though he would like nothing more than to slaughter them all for their unwelcome proximity.

"I will not be _sociable_ because some mangled she-cat tells me to," he snarls to the small sandy-ginger she-cat at his side. Some of the younger cats in the crowd snicker.

"Give it a rest, Oakpaw," she retorts, lashing her tail. "We all have to do things we don't want to. Me, pressured into kidnapping someone. You, forced to make smalltalk."

Khia shoves her way through the throng as they reach the bottom of the stairs, still bickering. Oakpaw's eyes land on her pelt and he frowns, warily studying her. "You," she says impatiently; he seems affronted by her shortness. "What's happening to my brother?"

Oakpaw rolls his eyes; it appears he is not a likable cat, although she can relate to this. "Listen, you idiot, I'm not some forest oracle. I don't know your brother."

She bears her teeth in response. "Bulky, black tom? Last seen being trampled by PureClan warriors? Sent on a doomed mission for whatever myopic reason?" Oakpaw's eyes narrow, and he sits down with a thump, though the small ginger she-cat continues to keep a close eye on him. He shrugs at her, as though she expects a detailed, insightful response, and he clearly can't supply it.

"Look, I saw him, alright? Tackling a few warriors by himself. If he's not dead already, they'll throw him in the cave and and use him for an assessment."

Her pelt prickles warily; whatever the cave is, it sounds ominous. "What assessments?"

Oakpaw levels her with a cool stare. His complete apathy is evident, and she loathes him for it. "It doesn't matter. Either way he'll end up dead. Even if... He'll still die, okay? Best mourn and move on now."

Khia knows he's trying to give her his own warped, tactless advice, though she won't heed it. "Cariad won't just roll over and die, you know," she snaps. She can still see it, though- Cariad dying any number of agonized deaths, and it rends at her heart to picture it. The knowledge of her failure is a jarring pressure in her chest.

"The best you can hope for is revenge," Oakpaw rumbles, watching her strangely. Still, he turns back to his ginger guardian, holding his wounded foreleg in the air. "I've socialized, I'm ready to go back to my hole." There's a plaintive plea hidden in his words, behind his gruff impudence. She tsks at him in mock-disappointment, but turns and begins to accompany him on the long trek upstairs. Bitterly, Khia hopes he falls and breaks his other legs.

"There's still hope," Gideon mutters, standing too close behind her. He sounds like he regrets approaching the Clanner at all, which appeases Khia momentarily. "Don't give up, Khia."

"I don't give up that easy," she announces, pushing it all aside; the remorse, the guilt, the pressure, the grief. It will not become her. Her mission must be adjusted, but it is still her mission. Cariad might not be a damsel in distress, but he needs her, where she once needed him. Khia will not fail again, and that thought gives her comfort through the dark night.

* * *

two reviews for the last chapter was a little bit sad guys :/

anyway khia finally reached the warehouse, it's only taken her the entire story so far

oakpaw is seriously becoming my favourite now, i relate to him on every level


	22. Obdurate

Recap: Cariad got himself caught by the nasty warriors, oops. Shortsighted much. Never fear though, he still alive and kicking ass. Somehow.

* * *

_We don't deal with outsiders very well_

_They say newcomers have a certain smell_

_You have trust issues, not to mention_

_They say they can smell your intentions_

-Twenty One Pilots, Heathens

* * *

Disbelief has never been such a collective emotion, Cariad thinks, as the Clan stares at him in wide-eyed defeat. For a moment all he feels is triumph. It is short-lived. Shock turns to mutiny; fear to rage. This is, perhaps, unprecedented, unimaginable. It gives him hope because, bone-tired and battered as he is, he still triumphed over one of their number. Maybe they all stand a chance.

It is clear now that they are not infallible, that the mighty may die.

The cold silence is broken suddenly as yesterday's small grey target rushes forward, shaking Volepaw's body with one paw. "He's dead," she says, as though she has to announce it. The ring ripples, wavers uncertaintly, and the regal golden she-cat descends through its ranks. Her eyes are firmly fixed on Cariad, and it unnerves him. Perhaps she's about to slay him, execute him for winning the fight of his life. He knows without a doubt that she is not an opponent he can overcome; he doesn't have even the slimmest of chances. Still, he stands tall and proud- _for Khia, for Elettra, for Thad, even._ He will not die like a coward, though he's already proved his own mettle.

"Come with me," snarls the golden she-cat, as the clearing erupts with cries of, "_Cheat! Murderer! Kill him!"_ He bares his teeth, but he cannot resist; if she's not killing him on this spot, there might be a chance he survives this. Wordlessly, he trails her as she stalks from the camp. The hostility of the Clan cats is crushing, a heavy venomous pressure that does not lift as he steps into the shade of trees. He is acutely nervous, heartbeat hammering beneath his skin. She is formidable to look at, and to fear her is instinctual. As they stop, she mutters something like _city scum_ under her breath.

"Well, well," she says, facing him at last with a withering stare. "What am I to do with you? Can't kill you, can't let you go…"

"What?" he asks. "Why not?" At least he won't be killed, in the foreseeable future, although he can clearly picture his life as PureClan's prisoner. He spent the night in that cave cell, the reek of blood and terror in his nose. There were a few other, skeletal creatures in there, but they have all been subsequently dealt with. His own horror must be apparent on his face.

The leader rolls her eyes, as though it should be obvious. "There is an old, soft law that states death is the only acceptable outcome of an apprentice's final trial. Once such death has been achieved the winner is untouchable. In older times this meant if a Tainted became victor they were allowed to flee with their life, or become assimilated into the Clan as a means of introducing new blood. However," she continues, narrowing her eyes, "this hasn't happened for _years_."

"You could still let me go," he pleads, but her expression is resolute.

"I cannot," she snaps. "You'll run back to that little _rebel_ group you belong to, the one that's been relentlessly plaguing me. Don't bother denying it. As it is, there's the curious question of your origin."

"I'm a city cat," he replies, although he doesn't sound overtly convincing. Still, he's not sure what she meant with her flippant comment. _Surely she can't know anything I don't._ He begins to doubt himself, although if he's not a city cat he has no idea what else he could possibly be. "What are you going to do with me, then?" He inserts some small amount of defiance in his voice; whatever she chooses, she can guarantee he'll put up a fight.

Her noses twitches in distaste, and she glances up at the sky through the canopy before replying. "It's getting late. You'll find out in the morning." It sounds ominous, and chills run through his pelt, though she offers no words of comfort, and he can't say he'll receive any ever again.

* * *

They trap him in the cave again. Blood lingers in the air, and it is filled with ghosts; there are a couple of remaining rogues, but they do not talk to him. Small prey bones crunch underfoot, and contribute to the fetid odour in the air. They have not bothered to fed him, and he begins to feel faint with hunger. Night is quickly approaching, and he hasn't eaten since yesterday morning. He is used to hunger, familiar worth it even, but his days at the warehouse have left him well-fed. Although there's a straight-backed guard sitting warily outside the cave mouth, Cariad doesn't bother to petition him for food. They won't possibly deign to feed him after he killed one of their own.

He lies down to sleep, thinking that after the events of day, he will slip away easily. His head aches with exhaustion, but he is haunted with with bloody memories. Cariad had not expected to kill anyone today, and he has, and though Volepaw was probably no saint, he can't help but feel guilty. _There was no other way_, he tells himself, but he wonders what else he would do to save his own skin. He snorts to himself, as the other cats watch him balefully; he's supposed to be killing them, after all, he's trained for it. Perhaps he is not meant to have a conscience, or perhaps these forest cats are not supposed to warrant his guilt and pity. He should know this after witnessing today's carnage, but all he can see is how they've _taught_ the young to hate and fight and hunt, how their ingrained malice have been drilled into them. There's every chance they could unlearn it and redeem themselves, yet Cariad thinks Miss won't agree. Then again, she might concur that the way to topple a dynasty is through the young, the pure, the future. He resolves to tell her so, if he ever escapes this hellhole.

That thought sends him to sleep, but it is patchy and light, and he wakes with the dawn. It is soft and warm, glazed with gold, and he wonders what it promises him. The guard on duty throws in a couple of voles- ironically, perhaps- and Cariad snaps one up ravenously. It's the best meal he's ever tasted, though it merely dulls his gnawing hunger. After this, when it is apparent they are not coming for him immediately, he settled down to groom himself, a mundane and pressing task. Aside from clumps of dried blood, he has grass and twigs in his fur. It is simultaneously relieving and soothing to undertake such a boring activity, and Cariad begins to feel like himself again- albeit, himself in a dark, depressing prison cell. The other two cats keep their distance, and this suits him. He doesn't feel like making conversation with the doomed.

As the sun rises in the sky, two Clanners enter the prison; he remembers the small black she-cat from yesterday, but the brilliant white queen accompanying her is a new addition. Cariad rises to his paws, claws unsheathed, although he senses he will not need them yet.

"You," growls the white she-cat, "and you." She has selected Cariad and a pale grey tom in the corner, covered in scabbing wounds. They exchange an uneasy glance but come to stand before the warrior anyway, prickling with apprehension. "Follow me," she orders, turning and sauntering away without a further comment. Meekly the two toms obey, trailing her as she leads from the cave, through the meadow and into the forest. He supposes he's about to _find out_ whatever the golden queen omitted from their brief conversation, and the prospect is not thrilling.

The white Clanner halts before they enter the camp; through a thin veil of undergrowth he can hear the routine morning bustle of PureClan. They sound normal, unremarkable, if a little cold. The black she-cat slips away quietly, and returns within moments with the leader.

"Morningstar," the white one says, bowing her head respectfully. "The toms, as requested."

"That will be all, Meadowmist," she says curtly, and Meadowmist promptly disappears. The grey rogue looks petrified, but Cariad's nerves have been allayed. He's very certain he's not about to die. "Now, you-"

"Cariad," he interjects helpfully. Her tail flicks in irritation.

"It doesn't matter," she mutters. "There's general dissent among the warriors. They will react poorly to your joining- unless you prove yourself."

This sounds ominous indeed, although Cariad is faintly sure he already proved himself by killing Volepaw. He opens his mouth to protest- he wants nothing to do with these callous monsters, and he certainly does not want to join their ranks. He would be a proverbial mouse in a viper's nest.

"This is not negotiable," Morningstar grunts, halting his objections. "Come now." She strides back into camp; Cariad bows his head and follows. He does not understand this old law, but perhaps he should thank it for saving his life. In her absence, the Clan has formed another ring, and his stomach drops. This is eerily reminiscent of yesterday's bloodbath trials, which he was all too glad to see the end of. Morningstar pushes through the crowd, and they part for her like waves. Their stares are heavy on his back, although the severe hostility has lessened. Still, the animosity is a thick and cloying presence. _Do they know I'm supposed to join them?_

"My Clan," Morningstar announces, and their attention snaps to her. "We have not encountered such an anomaly in recent history, but it was once commonplace for outsiders to best our own in a fight. In such a case they were offered a prestigious position in PureClan in order to introduce new blood. As this has not happened for several years, I am willing to let this stranger ascend to our ranks once he has truly proven his worth." Her words are met with sullen and belligerent hisses, but no one steps forward to confront her. "This is your own assessment, Cariad," she murmurs, glancing between him and the rogue. "Don't disappoint me." With this, she melts into the assembly. Cariad turns slowly to face the grey tom, who still looks confused. Realization begins to dawn on his face, and it makes Cariad's stomach churn. He does not want to do this, but his desire to survive overrides his weak-willed morals.

He drops into a fighting stance, inviting his opponent to take the first move. His tail lashes. The tom is ginger, reluctant, but takes a few heavy swipes which are easily evaded. Some Clanners cheer despite themselves. Cariad performs an easy feint and then slashes at his vulnerable rib cage; he senses this cat is not used to fighting, if he knows how at all. The grass is fresh and green under his paws- although it still bears traces of blood- as he circles swiftly. Innately, this is no different to sparring in the warehouse. This match will end, however, with someone gasping their last on the ground. He didn't have time to think about it yesterday, but the burden of murder is a recent scar, and the guilt already swamps him. Cariad endeavours to finish it as quickly as possible- not to impress the captivated Clanners, but to prevent any pain his rival may feel, for he surely deserves none of it. With ease, he pushes the loner to the ground; he is frail, and his strength is pitiful. Cariad pins him to the ground and stares deep into his eyes as he stretches down to grasp his throat. His pulse stutters in his grip, but his eyes are wide and forgiving, so Cariad bites down and looks away. There is so much blood.

The cats jeer as he rises, soaked in gore, and Morningstar seems almost proud. She climbs a small knoll situated in the center of camp, and the others languidly place themselves at the foot of it. Cariad finds himself at the front, recognizing some of the faces from yesterday, though he is more focused on the blood dripping from his torso.

"PureClan," Morningstar cries. "We have witnessed the worthiness of these young cats to uphold our laws and continue our eternal fight. May Firepaw, Cloudpaw, Littlepaw, and Willowpaw step forwards." Half of the standing cats move towards Morningstar, who barely bothers to look at them. "Do you promise to uphold and protect the warrior code, and protect PureClan from the poison once known as love?"

"I do," the big tabby tom murmurs, and the rest follow suit.

"Under the eyes of StarClan I present you with your warrior names. The Clan honours your quest to evade the poison. Firepaw, you will be known as Firestorm. Cloudpaw, you are now Cloudstrike. Littlepaw, I name you Littlefrost. Willowpaw shall be known as Willowfang." The newly minted warriors drift back into the crowd, most look immensely smug, leaving Cariad standing on the fringes of the she-cats.

"May the apprentices known as Flurrypaw, Ashpaw, Swiftpaw, Sunpaw, Dawnpaw and Fernpaw step forwards. Under the eyes of StarClan they are presented with their warrior names. Flurrypaw is now Flurrycloud, Ashpaw has become Ashflower, and Swiftpaw is to be called Swiftriver. Sunpaw has become Sunfeather. Dawnpaw is Dawnshadow and Fernpaw is now Fernstep."

Cariad watches Fernstep as she stands in the crowd- his hapless victim now has a name. She looks up, and meets his gaze with a steely glare. It's likely that Volepaw was her brother, he supposes, considering she was the first to react. Cowed, he looks back up at Morningstar. Her attention, once again, is on him. He wonders if he is about to be inducted, swept into their ranks as another faceless beast.

"Finally, the tom before you has thrown away the shackles of love and renounced the poison's claim to him. He has proven his worthiness in all facets and as such will be accepted into the Clan with the identity he took from us. From this moment onwards he shall be known as Voletooth, and is much a warrior as any of you."

The Clan mutters to themselves, and Cariad is not close enough to catch the whispers. He imagines they are nothing kind. He shakes his fur out and contemplates his new name: Voletooth. He much prefers his old one, and he'd prefer not to be reminded of his first kill every time someone adresses him. He is still musing over this when Morningstar calls out again.

"This ceremony hasn't yet concluded, you lazy things, so sit still until it has. These new warriors have not completed their duty to this Clan; to do so, they must first be paired. It is with pleasure I announce that StarClan has approve the matches between Littlefrost and Flutterwing; Scarpelt and Dawnshadow; Nightwhisker and Fernstep; Flurrycloud and Willowfang, and lastly Voletooth and Sunfeather. This completes the ceremony, you can resume doing whatever inane task you were busy with before."

The assembly disbands, and Cariad looks around for his so-called 'pair'. Ceremonial pairing is not yet clear to him yet, but he still has no idea who Sunfeather is. Before he can stand, Morningstar leaps down from her pedestal, wordlessly demanding his attention.

"You have a lot to learn," she says gruffly, signalling to to someone over his shoulder. "I can't babysit you, so Sunfeather will teach you. Her first mentoring gig, if you will. Know this- if you try to escape, I will kill you. If you kill one of mine, I will kill you. If you step a foot out of line you will be dead, and it will be painful." As she says this, a pretty golden she-cat appears at his shoulder, amber eyes round and prismatic. She is lithe, and elegant, and all hints of blood have been carefully groomed from her shining pelt.

"Yes, mother?" she says, and Cariad recoils a little bit. Her voice is every bit as light as her pelt and bright as her eyes. She seems, frankly, sunny, and her name appears appropriate.

"Show our newcomer around, teach him our ways, don't let him get killed. He's your pair now, and don't bother asking for a new one," the leader commands dismissively. "That will be all, you may leave me now." Sunfeather dips her head and walks away. For safety's sake, Cariad keeps close to her heels. She leads him into the forest, winding her way through trees. Finally, once they can see no one else, she turns to him, regarding him with something a few shades softer than apathy.

"Well," she says, "I'm Sunfeather." It is a short introduction, but one that he's comfortable with.

"I'm Cariad," he replies, smiling slightly, "but you can call me Voletooth." The name is foreign in his mouth, tripping over his tongue, but he has his whole life to get used to it. Sunfeather looks at him and frowns, shaking her head.

"Don't do that," she reprimands. "Don't smile. Don't be friendly, or relatable. You have to be cold and callous, and do _not_ be amiable with me. It is all about presentation in PureClan; everything is an act. The sooner you learn this, the better. StarClan, you're just like a kit."

"Okay?" he says, still unsure. It makes sense, he supposes. "You're my pair, what does that mean?" She rolls her eyes as if he is resoundingly stupid.

She snorts, "You're the father of my children." Cariad can't help but gape at her, his thoughts flashing to Elettra. Does he love her? Is it worth preserving what they shared, at the cost of his life? Misreading his stricken expression, Sunfeather continues, "Don't worry, Cariad, it's just duty. They'll back off after one or two litters. You're under no obligation to care for me- you really shouldn't, if you understand our rules at all."

"You mean...now?" he wheezes, wondering if she brought him to this private location for such an ulterior motive. The idea doesn't exactly repulse him, but it seems a bit soon. They've just met, after all.

Sunfeather purses her lips and stares at him, unamused. "No, you dork. We have time. I would rather wait, and know you a bit better first. We should get out of here before you make things any more awkward. We have to tour the territory, teach you the code...Ugh, and it reeks of badger here, too."

Cariad doesn't know what a badger is, but sure; it reeks of _something_, anyway.

* * *

this was the only plot point i had planned for ttatt three years ago and i don't like it but it leads to fun things so here we go

are my reviewers alive out there guys do i have to send a search party

cariad in the middle of a bunch of marauding killers hoping to get lucky omfg boy stop


	23. Perfidy

Recap: Oak is the second most short-sighted tom we know, so unsurprisingly he ran right into a trap; ergo, he is now the prisoner of the rebellion and only three of his legs work properly. At least the banter is great.

* * *

_I wanna make you mine but that's hard to say_

_Is this coming off in a cheesy way_

-Melanie Marinez, Training Wheels

* * *

_He is playing with Burrkit and Mallowkit. They are all so young, and it seems strange to him, but he doesn't want to stop winning their mock tussle and says not a word. It is easy to fend them both off, even at his tender age; he sits triumphantly on the back of Mallowkit, whose feeble protests are punctuated with giggles. Burrkit bats at him, half-heartedly, strength inhibited by the laughter shaking his small frame. He has missed this- winning- but this notion is also odd to him, and he can't fathom why it has sprung into his mind._

"_I hate to interrupt," a sleek voice says behind them, "But I have to borrow my son." Startled, Oakkit tumbles from his defeated foe's back, landing with a thud on the floor of the dirt tunnel. He looks up into a face darker than shadows. Her green eyes are narrow and tense, and it strikes apprehension into his belly, and it all seems to make so much more sense than he ever thought it did._

"_I was having fun!" he whines, and the words slip from his mouth instead of the things he desperately wants to say._

_The dark figure mutters, "Who says time with your mother can't be fun?" and Oakpaw is ready to rattle off several reasons before she stoops to pick him up by his scruff. He relaxes instantly, but throws out a few meek protests to protect his image. He likes being carried like this, really, reminded of his young safe days where everything was so uncomplicated. For good measure, he lets out a disgruntled squawk as she sets him down in the leader's nursery den._

"_Had a nice day?" she asks brightly, conversationally. He is unused to such a tone ever emerging from her mouth, and it makes him immediately suspicious. _

"_Fine, 'till you interrupted," he snorts, scuffing his paws. The memory of winning a two-sided tussle is still bright in his eyes, and he wants to go back to it._

"_Did you talk to the new apprentices?" she asks, and this distracts him. Oakkit brightens instantly at the thought._

"_Yeah!" he boasts, looking up. She freezes; he feels his mouth talking, and vaguely understands the kittish nonsense he is babbling, but he is hinged on her look of utter panic and despair. Now he understands. It was he, really, who betrayed his own mother with the mere colour of his eyes. Strongclaw is right; he damned her, and he may very well damn himself too._

"Do you ever stop _sleeping?" _someone exclaims loudly, clambering down into his cell with a series of loud thunks. Oakpaw opens his eyes reluctantly; though his vision is blurred, the dainty ginger shape sitting expectantly at his feet is unmistakable. He groans loudly, though she has a point; ever since his 'social excursion' yesterday, he has been sleeping. He blames his injured leg and the way it seems to sap the energy from him- that, and those damn stairs. They're a heinous invention, and Oakpaw can't see why anyone would want to use them. Still, his relentless napping seems to be helping, bad dreams aside- already the pain is his leg is dulling, though he doesn't dare use it properly.

"Because there is _so_ much for me to do up here," he replies dryly, glaring at Az with no real heat. She's the only friend he has here, the only one he plans on making. She stops him from going stir-crazy, and for a Tainted, she's not half-bad. He'll be sorry to abandon her, when he returns to PureClan- and he will, he knows it. When he's not asleep or exchanging inane banter, he is plotting his way out. His glorious escape. His triumphant return. He must wait for his leg to heal, but that only gives him time to perfect his plan. Perhaps Az will even help.

"Miss will let you come down to talk to the others, you know," Az says, as if he should relish the opportunity to converse with a bunch of city cats who in all likelihood would rather kill him than look at him. The youngest of all have been raised on hatred; it is their fuel, their lifeblood, and soon it will serve a deadly purpose than Oakpaw cannot even imagine. They're content enough to gawk at him, some awkward broken spectacle, but he is not equal in their eyes. He is barbaric, a forest savage, and in the end he will be put down like one. They can all think what they like, he supposes, but it changes nothing. They'll all die in the end, someway or another, and he will saunter back to the forest laughing.

"I don't want to talk to _them_," he spits; not like they have anything worthwhile to say. Az's face falls and she looks rather mutinous. "I meant them," he signs, reading her expression; he's getting good at this interpreting emotions stuff, although it's mostly foreign to him. "Not you. I almost like talking to you, actually." This is meant to placate her, although he is not sure if it does the job. Oakpaw hardly wants to chase off his only ally and friend.

"It's fine," she says, flopping down with a hollow metal thud. "Elettra's still crabby that I left Cariad behind, and now Thad has jumped on the bandwagon, and _everyone_ likes Thad so of course they're all leaping on with him...like, hello, I did my job, leave me alone! I told the idiot to run, and he didn't, is that really my fault? And it was his scatter-brained plan in the first place. _Never_ let Cariad make the plan, I tell you."

He is content to let her ramble. She does this a lot; she has few friends among her peers, and Oakpaw can hardly throw his own opinion in about social concerns.

"Anyway," she signs, abandoning her frustrated rant. "Do you want to go downstairs again?"

"Do you?" he counters, fixing her with a knowing gaze. It must be bad down there if she's hiding out with the enemy. "Because I don't. I've had enough of being gawked at, prodded, affronted with questions I don't know how to answer."

"That little she-cat was quite persistent," Az muses. Both reflect on the dappled fawn she-cat; she is tiny, smaller than even Az. Something about her seems eerily familiar, although he's not sure she looks anything like her dark hulking brother. He doesn't understand why he was so gentle with her, when he could've snapped at her to piss off and leave her with her unending questions. Perhaps if it were Emberpaw, trapped in the same hopeless situation...he's not sure what he would do, despite their distanced relationship. There's a small part of him that aches to see her again, but it is quashed easily. Emberpaw can defend herself anyway, he assures himself.

"You don't remember her?" Oakpaw asks. Az has told him they all come from the same place- a 'basement', she says- although Oakpaw does not understand the system of barter and trade.

"I saw her sneak out every so often, and she was Ru's favourite, but I don't recall anything but that. Cariad's always been a pain in my ass though." She grins wryly, almost fondly, at the memory.

"Figures," he mutters. "Hero-types always are."

As he says this, someone throws a scrap of fresh-kill into the chute. They don't make a comment on Az's presence, which Oakpaw always finds odd. Is she supposed to be consorting with the known enemy? He guesses it doesn't matter, not when he's not meant to escape. They'll be sorry when he does. Sighing, he paws the torn mouse towards him with his good leg. It's missing several chunks of fur and a good hunk of its flank, but he doesn't complain. Oakpaw is merely glad they aren't starving him- it seems a suitable tactic for the cowards to employ. Morosely, he takes a bite, thinking he could catch something twice as good at home. Az looks disgusted.

"Is that all they're feeding you?" she snaps. "That's pathetic."

Oakpaw looks down at her blandly. "It could be worse," he says apathetically. It's true, and he doesn't feel sorry for himself when he has only himself to blame for his current situation. If he hadn't chased her, hadn't threatened and snarled at her...if he had only been quicker in his attempt to escape… He tells himself this every night, and it can only be amended when he escapes.

"Uh-uh," Az snaps, dragging his meal from him as he leans down to take another bite. "This is not good enough for _my_ kidnap victim." Oakpaw rolls his eyes, but she isn't watching; she flings the mouse out onto the gallery and leaps out after it, leaving Oakpaw alone and hungry. He groans in faux despair and leans heavily against the wall behind him. She's likely gone to argue with someone, spitfire that she is, and will probably forget to bring his mouse back with her.

_Alone and starving_, he thinks pitifully, dramatically. Thoughts of his dream begin to invade his mind again, much as he tries to forget it. It is a dim, faint memory, the last he has of his mother. He can still picture her clearly; having Emberpaw as a living reference helps. He understands now, much as he wishes he didn't, that he is the evidence that condemned his mother to her death and Strongclaw to his undying misery. There's nothing he can do- and he supposes, deflecting the blame with ease, that it was Sablefrost's fault for falling in love. That was, strictly, the _only_ thing prohibited in PureClan. His guilt eases at the thought. He didn't decide to be born, or to change his eyes to a shade of guilt-gold.

Az returns as he ponders this, dragging a large black-and-white bird with her. She drops it proudly into the chute and then leaps down after it. "It's a magpie," she announces, licking her chest as his eyes go wide with awe- it's half her size, easily. "You'll have to share with me, but it's better than some mangy mouse."

"Is this your food?" he asks suspiciously. He doesn't want to _take_ from her, not when a simple mouse would have sufficed.

"Yeah, but you think I could eat all of this on my own?" she scoffs. "They feed me anything I want since my mission was successful." She wiggles her eyebrows at him playfully.

"Okay," he says, shrugging. He begins to pluck out layers and layers of feathers, deciding they'll be good for his nest. The newspaper is stale and the scraps of fabric are starting to smell. Az helps him in his task, ripping out plumes with gusto. Oakpaw has never shared a meal with anyone, and once the bird is devoid of feathers, he's not sure where to start.

"Do you-" he starts to ask.

"You should-" Az says simultaneously. They both stop and stare at each other; Az giggles uncertainly. "I was gonna say you should start first," she continues, with a light laugh.

Oakpaw flicks his tail uncomfortably. "Don't be stupid," he says, frowning, "eat what you want and I'll take the rest."

Az just shrugs, leaning down to take a bite and gesturing immediately for him to do the same. He complies- the meat is rich and gamey, and just as good as anything he could have scrounged up in the forest. A small purr builds in the back of his throat and for once he does not bother to push it away. Oakpaw takes another bite, and another- it has been easy to forget how ravenous he really is, considering all he does is sleep. The pair make quick work of the magpie, sneezing occasionally as drifting stray feathers brush their muzzles. He feels his whiskers brush hers, and they bump noses together twice- it brings a wave of heat to his face, which he chooses not to psychoanalyse.

"Thanks for that," he says as they finish. Though he had not realized it, a decent, fulfilling meal was something he had been deeply craving.

"Are you ready to come out now?" she says. "You don't have to talk."

Oakpaw looks at the bright opening in the wall. Twisted though it is, his prison is the only safe place he has left. He'd rather plot here in relative comfort than subject himself to that kind of garish attention again. "No," he sighs, fixing her with a imploring look. Az is beginning to look exasperated- an expression which, Oakpaw is quickly learning, is fairly perpetual on the ginger she-cat.

"Well, have you at least thought about doing what they want you to?" she sniffs. "It's got to be better than rotting in this hole."

"No!" he cries. They want him to betray PureClan...as if that venture won't get him and every cat in this warehouse killed. And there's the fact he could never forsake his Clan, his people, could never turn a claw on that well-oiled machine. Such a thought is painful, but an impossibility..He will never comply with their orders or their heretical demands. Oakpaw is as stubborn as they come, and PureClan is his home, his only home; his stability and comfort and safety.

"Why not?" Az snaps back. "What have you got to lose by leaving that awful place? We're willing to forgive you, _spare _you-"

"From what?" he bellows. They tip-toe around this mystery, their thinly-shrouded plan, and he can almost see right through. Oakpaw is sick of it. They're all liars- Az too, probably- and even worse, they're dangerous. An overwhelming urge tells him to flee, run, warn the Clan. The storm lies thick and heavy on the horizon but they are too distant to see it. Only he knows; it is a grave burden to bear, restless on his shoulders, and makes him anxious to leave.

"Just think about it," Az shrills, leaping swiftly from the cell. She darts away without another word; Oakpaw is bemused, angry, afraid. His concern is not for himself, as he slowly pieces the vague clues together, but for those he left behind. For everything which they stand for, closer than ever to the verge of ruination.

* * *

Several days pass, marked only by the appearance of food- mice and rats and distinctly lacking Az's insulted concern- and the occasional visit made by Emory. Oakpaw has quickly learned that he's what equates for a deputy (he's delighted that in a sense, Iceface has been demoted). Emory makes several stirring speeches, all of which enters one ear and exits straight out the other. The apprentice doesn't care what spiels they rattle off; he is only regathering his strength and stamina, and testing out his leg everyday. It is still weak, probably broken, and the thudding ache never really leaves him.

Azazel is conspicuously absent for four days, five, a week. He scared her off, perhaps, or maybe she's still fuming. He regrets the end of their last meeting, really, but she's still the enemy and he her unwilling prisoner. He can't lose sight of that, or forget himself, or shake off his heritage. He's leaving her anyway, whether he lives or dies. In her absence, he's taken to pacing the cramped floors, gingerly favouring his wounded foreleg. He practices several easy battle moves- Oakpaw is determined not to let his muscles waste away, or let his skills rot as he does.

He is sleeping when he next hears her voice. Faint sunlight blinds him as he cracks open his eyes, broken only by her looming shadow. Contempt simmers underneath his skin. He tells himself she is an ant, an inconsequential creature; he in comparison is a warrior, and should not disgrace himself with her fickle attentions.

Oakpaw sits up anyway.

"Come to apologize?" he asks, brisk but not harsh. He cocks an expectant eyebrow at Azazel. She looks abashed, something more even- she seems nervous, but Oakpaw's not sure because he's never seen such an expression cross her face. Her sandy fur is ruffled and her tail tip twitches fitfully.

"Well, not really," she says, looking slightly guilty. "I have my opinion and you have yours, can we just leave it at that?" Beyond her small dosage of remorse, she seems hopeful, optimistic, as if she can imagine _this_ going anywhere, as if in two years she will bring his meals to this dismal cage, and they will bicker like an elderly couple, as if she likes the hunt and he is still chasing. Her faithful optimism wounds him, strikes a chord deep within him, and after days of waiting he can't turn her away.

"Whatever," he grunts, watching her eyes brighten. He still won't do what she asks- not now and not ever- but in some small semblance he can forgive her.

"That's great," she chirps, reaching behind herself with a paw, drawing it back with a thrush dangling from her wicked claws. "I caught this myself, wanna share?"

Despite himself, his stomach rumbles. He's already eaten a tiny mouse today, but he needs more now than the pittance they feed him. "Okay," he agree, and they settle down to pluck it together. It seems routine, this meal-sharing, and the intimacy daunts him. Nothing should be _familiar_ in this place; anything mundane in unacceptable. And yet it does not concern him as much as it should.

Their whiskers brush once, twice, but he keeps his nose carefully out of the way. Is he disappointed, without that illicit thrill of accidental contact? Oakpaw will not dwell on it.

Silence reigns, until she says, "Tell me about being a warrior." Her tone is not wistful, though it is awed. He wonders what prompted this. Is it genuine interest?

"Well," he says, unsure of what to tell her, or how, "when apprentices complete their final trials after their training, they become a warrior. Morningstar holds a ceremony where you swear to protect and uphold the Warrior Code and the ways of PureClan. After that, she gives you your name."

"Your name?" Az asks curiously. "But you already have a name." The mention of the trials and the _ways of PureClan_ have, thankfully, passed right over her head. He is not ready for an argument of philosophy, semantics or morals (and likely never will be, because words are not his forte).

"Of course," Oakpaw replies, "but that's only the prefix. When a kit is first born, they're given the first part of their name- Oakkit, for example. It describes their appearance or something they remind their parents of. When they're an apprentice, they become a 'paw. When they become a warrior, they earn their full name. It relates to their talents or skills or appearance." Here, he can't help but boast. "I'll be named something like Oakstrike or Oakstorm because I'm a good fighter and all that. My mother was Sablefrost, and my father was Smokefang."

Tentatively, Az asks, "Was?" She seems empathetic, which is a little grating- she knows nothing of him or his life and he does not want her pity.

"They're dead," Oakpaw says shortly. It's the way any rulebreakers end up, and it is a pertinent reminder. His tone is final, unquestionable, and he is relieved when she doesn't probe.

"I wonder what my name would be…" Az muses. He can see her as a warrior, albeit a reckless, brash one, and it is a mildly terrifying image. She would be battle-scarred and ruthless, following orders without question. If she were born into that life, she would enjoy it. Oakpaw considers her for a moment; her scruffy ginger fur, vibrant green eyes, turbulent attitude. Sure, she's tiny, but her ferociousness makes up for what she vertically lacks. In another world, they might even be paired together...it's possible, considering their fiery personalities would clash sufficiently, although he doubts it. She would go to someone like Willowpaw, or Scarpelt, dull and brutish and incapable of producing a single feeling. The mere thought irks him, and he dismisses it with ease.

"Probably Tinypaw," he teases. Her hackles puff up- looking the furthest thing he's ever seen from intimidating- and she glares at him. "Or Blazepaw, or Sagepaw, I suppose, if you weren't that fussed on Tiny." In this other world, she is Sagepaw, and she is perhaps his biggest rival. They compete without words- there is only _one_ best fighter, and each desires that title. In some perverse twist, Morningstar pairs them together. And they hate each other, can't stand the thought of one another, and yet it begins to warp, deviate...Their kits, he thinks with amusement, would be terrors.

"And my warrior name?" she says, still lost in thought. She too is imagining another world, and perhaps she likes it. "Blazefang? Sagefire?" She seems like a natural, as though she were meant for a life in the forest.

"Tinyclaw," he mutters under his breath. She hears it and glares at him fiercely.

"This is _my_ daydream," she snaps waspishly, and he can only shrug in mock-apology, failing to dislodge the smile from his muzzle. Her grin is a small thing in return, tiny and mercurial, but he takes it. He forgets why he shouldn't.

* * *

8 pages of fluff why the hell not

shit's about to hit the fan and i CAN'T WAIT


	24. Myrmidon

Recap: Ember's a sneaky bab so naturally she's keeping secrets from Morningstar and is employing(?) a city snob just in case it comes in handy. Hmm. Seems unlikely.

* * *

_I can feel your breath_

_I can feel my death_

_I want to know you_

_I want to see_

-Twenty One Pilots, Trees

* * *

She can only blink as Sunfeather and that strange, lucky tom disappear into the forest. The past few minutes have been a blur, and Emberpaw's not sure she even believes it. _A Tainted. One of our own. Has Morningstar gone mad? _She looks sane enough, but she always does, despite the untamed malice lurking beneath her eyes. In short, the same Morningstar she's always known. As she processes the leader's potential insanity, the golden-furred she-cat begins to head her way. Emberpaw dips her head, cautiously keeping her distance, just in case.

"Emberpaw," the leader barks. "Why aren't you following them?" She flickers her tail irately in the direction of her daughter and the city tom. Emberpaw suppresses the urge to roll her eyes and just nods again, although she can't dislodge the irritated grimace from her muzzle. Morningstar just looks at her, uncaring and expectant, and so she trots quietly into the forest, leaping with ease onto a low branch. From there, she makes her way into the canopy, though the pair's scent is still strong and easy to follow. His is still acerbic, as bitter as the day he stepped out of the city. Sunfeather is someone she's never paid particular interest to; by PureClan standards, she seems nice, and boring, despite her heritage. Bland enough, and probably not someone worth spying on. Until now.

Emberpaw catches up to them easily, traversing several broken branches that had not been there a few days ago. Their murmuring reaches her first, soft and distant. She can't decipher it, and so hurries faster, ignoring the brittle noises of protest beneath her paws. "_Teach you the code…" _echoes through the trees as she stumbles upon them at last. They stand below her, a safe distance between them, although Voletooth (the same seems like a joke, but she doesn't know what else to call him) already looks far too comfortable. It seems like he's already forgetting the scabbing wounds on his pelt and the crusty blood on his chest. It blends in well, like a second dark skin over his pelt. Volepaw has died, and now in some hideous masquerade his murderer has taken over his life. Emberpaw is happy, that for once the underdog was not slaughtered. Still, the cost seems too high. Too much. She's not sure she can ever like this tom, who took Volepaw's life and name without so much as batting an eyelash.

"It reeks…" Sunfeather is saying lowly, clearly disgusted, and Emberpaw shifts uncomfortably, wondering if her own scent has drifted down...but she can't smell _that_ bad. The pair move off again, and Emberpaw belatedly realizes Voletooth needs a tour of the territory- and she's going to have to trek _all over_ with them. She heaves a sigh and starts off after them, keeping close tabs on their conversation, though she listens only half-heartedly.

"-every warrior has a pair, like a contractual obligation. We're just supposed to have kits and nothing more. As a warrior, you'll also fight, mentor the young, hunt…"

"Raid the city?" Voletooth asks, sounding carefully neutral. He seems disarmingly uninterested, but she wonders, if the moment they take him back...will he try to run?

"Possibly," Sunfeather says cautiously. "Raids have been...postponed for now." She doesn't mention why, though it seems glaringly obvious; Ice and the rabble he fled to join, the city cats and their strange agenda. Emberpaw wonders if this tom was a part of that- she can't imagine anyone ambushing a Clanner for the fun of it. She makes a note to keep a close eye on him, though she does not doubt that Morningstar will be doing the same. Perhaps Skah will know… He tipped her off a few days ago, alerting her to the two strangers lurking by the river- it wasn't pure luck that had her lingering by the river on the day of the attack. Still, he didn't seem to know much at all about them, describing them as a 'dark stranger' and 'tiny pipsqueak'. He was not exactly wrong.

Emberpaw knows it's nothing short of a miracle that no one else has discovered him, and every day anticipates his discovery and subsequent death. He was stupid to seek them out, but perhaps not entirely deserving of a brutal death at their claws.

The pair below are silent as they walk through the territory- Sunfeather occasionally points out landmarks; the ancient oak tree, the meadow, the gorge. They reach the river, although Voletooth is already intricately familiar with this area. She remembers standing on the riverbank, beating him down, subduing him. She had not thought he'd live to see the sunrise, yet here he stands, one of them. A _comrade_, of all things. Emberpaw watches his face and the stray flickers of emotions that run across it. The water is too slow, too sluggish to throw himself into in hopes of escape. Voletooth does not appear to acknowledge this, and Emberpaw's not sure if he's even thinking of escape at all. _A spy, then_.

"What is it like here?" Voletooth asks in a low voice. Assessing, calculating. Weighing the risk of remaining against the danger of fleeing. Either way, he he skating across thin ice, and there will be cracks no matter where he chooses to stand. He could make it, she muses, if he's quick. Iceface took the entire Clan by surprise, and Morningstar is not willing to make that mistake again. If he escapes, he must be relentlessly quick, unforgivably resilient, innately cunning. Emberpaw suspects he is merely one of those things, if at all, and this alone will not aid him. Therefore, she supposes, he's going to be here for a long time.

"Harsh," Sunfeather says after a moment. "Cold. Lonely. Violent. Take your pick." _Ruthless_, Emberpaw adds. _Detached, isolated, invincible. It all fits._ Sunfeather's expression mirrors hers, as they give their glowing descriptions of their home. Still, Emberpaw cannot forsake this place and these cats entirely. She was born, raised and is likely to die here, with those that have always surrounded her. This in itself seems comforting; the pattern and routine of PureClan keeps her grounded, cemented, sane. She would be aimless without it, and this is a daunting prospect. It may be all those awful things, but it is familiar.

"What do you live for?" Cariad asks, bemused. He does not understand it so clearly, she sees now; the allure of a warrior name, of working your way towards a rank, of certain and assured superiority. He has had it all handed to him, and does not know now what to do.

Vaguely, Sunfeather says, "I'd rather live like this than die." Unbidden, this provokes thoughts of Sablefrost, though she pushes them away. She'd chosen to die, and she perhaps saw something that the rest of them did not. Emberpaw shakes her head to clear it. As she does so, a flash of something pale in her peripheral vision catches her immediate attention. Flattening her ears against her head she glances down again, though the pair seem oblivious to what lurks on the opposite bank. She grits her teeth and leaps from branch to branch, a mere flitting shadow through the trees. Crossing above the river fills her with some small sense of trepidation, but she manages it soundlessly. Emberpaw creeps down the slim trunk of an ash tree, masked amid the bright green leaves that are beginning to wilt beneath the sun's glare. With a small snarl, she leaps upon the white figure poorly concealed behind a juniper bush. He yelps as she pounces on him, and his head knocks resoundingly against a thick branch laden with berries. They pelt his face as he falls back; Emberpaw, satisfied, sits down and watches the fiasco.

"If I were anyone else," she says, warningly, "you would have been dead before your head hit the branch." Cowed, and no doubt aching, Skah sits up and gingerly touches his muzzle with a paw.

"Good thing you're a softie," he says, grinning. The gravity of the situation rarely seems to grasp Skah, and it has not done so today. It never ceases to irritate her. Still, he's proven his meagre usefulness, so she's decided to keep him around. Emberpaw lets the comment slide; she won't prove him wrong, not today.

"What's going on in the city?" Emberpaw asks, suddenly serious. Skah just blinks at her with his mismatched eyes, looking decisively furtive.

"Why do you want to know?" he asks slyly. He's seen her with Morningstar- he must know Emberpaw reports to her, and only her, unfailingly. _Mostly._ She'll have to convince him if she's to gain any insight- convince him with her words, and not her claws. It might be difficult.

"Something's happening," she says, in what may very well be her most persuasive tone, "I can tell. Our deputy is gone. That black tom _ambushed_ one of our own. I've heard talk of _kits_ and _training_ and I can't make sense of any of it. My brother has _disappeared_. I want to know what's happened to him, or if anything is going to happen to me. I don't have a death wish, Skah." She convinces him of her normality with every breath; her utter averageness, her inlaid benevolence.

Her lying has improved.

Skah quakes under her imploring gaze. "I can't tell you much," he murmurs. "But there is something happening. Turmoil, unrest. A...change. The city is no longer a placid beast, Sable. Be wary of that."

"What do you mean?" she hisses. He knows more, she's sure of it. But he's so damned enigmatic...and this city business is so cryptic, no matter who she talks to.

Skah looks conflicted, as though he's said more than he was supposed to mention. "Keep away from them," he says finally. "Far away. I suspect it's already too late for your brother."

"He's dead?" she asks, pausing to consider the very idea. It is not possible. "He is _not_ dead, Skah, you can't tell me that." He is a fighter, a warrior- not one to kneel and die before the wretched city cats. She doesn't overtly care for him, but it is upsetting to realize her _only_ surviving family might have already left her. Gone, where no one can see. She hates the overwhelming loneliness that threatens to swamp her. Even Skah is refusing to look sympathetic.

"I have to go," she mutters. She doesn't want to look at his stupid, stoic face, so without pity she cannot stand it. He sees her as something that does not deserve his compassion, and perhaps rightly so. She can't say anyone in the Clan would treat her differently. Skah doesn't say a word as she darts away, stumbling through bushes then fleeing, hidden into the canopy above. She can't stand him, the city, her brother for _leaving_ her. He ran into his own trap, didn't he? Oakpaw did not bother to turn around when it became clear he would not win the chase. All she has left is duty. It is not a reassuring idea.

Emberpaw finds her targets again without much effort on her part. She's feeling nauseous, so she steps down from her trees, finding little solace in the stability of solid ground. Voletooth nearly walks right into her, and she recoils with a snarl. Sunfeather stops, regarding her with apathy, but her is attention is fixed solely on the usurper standing before her.

"Watch where you're going," she growls. "You can't settle for murdering one of us- you have to trample the rest too?"

"My apologies," Voletooth says politely, looking weary. Rightly so. "I didn't see you there." This seems more condescending than placating, and her hackles rise in response.

"What have they done with my brother?" she hisses. She'll be blunt; there's no point in skirting around the subject with niceties. Emberpaw feels that today, right now, it's simply not within her capabilities. "What the hell is your lot planning?"

"Emberpaw," Sunfeather interjected softly, looking concerned.

Voletooth stares down at her, inscrutable. They could be a match, two sides of the same coin, an oddly warped reflection. It's as though her own face is staring back at her, distorted and huge. She lashes her tail at their likeness. Sharing _anything_ with this city beast is an insult.

"I don't know what happened to your brother," he says, shrugging. "He's probably fine, though. Our kind aren't like yours." _Cold, harsh, violent._

"Your kind _is_ my kind," Emberpaw says contemptuously, "now." The thought doesn't seem to please either of them. "Good luck back at camp," she continues, coldly. "I have a hunch someone will murder you before dawn." With this final scathing remark, she stalks away, leaving Voletooth gaping. Morningstar might murder her for botching her silent spying mission, but she can't bring herself to stalk his sorry ass any longer. Not with thought of the city and Oakpaw running tumultuously through her mind.

She flings herself into camp, ignoring the cats around her. On her way back she has managed to catch a squirrel, which might at least appease her mentor. Morningstar lurks beside her den, once talking to Strongclaw with an avid glare fixed firmly in place.

"-contribute to the _Clan_, Strongclaw. Go hunting, fetch fresh moss, I don't care what. It's time to be functional again, my patience is running out."

"_No_, not your patience!" Strongclaw gasps, mock-aghast. "Whatever will we do without it?"

Morningstar closes her eyes and heaves a deep breath. "You don't want to find out, son." Emberpaw suspects, however, that Strongclaw already knows what happens when Morningstar's finite patience runs too low. All too well, she thinks.

"Hello, small sneaky one," Strongclaw says, at last noticing the waiting apprentice. "If you're spying on us, you're doing a terrible job." His eyes are feverishly bright, though his pelt is clean for once. He does not seem fixed, but better. Emberpaw wonders how much of this is all for show.

"I wasn't, actually," she replies dryly. "I wanted to talk about my brother."

"What about him?" Morningstar asks, looking dismissive. She's examining her claws, as if conversation with the two of them has taxed her.

"He's...err...gone?" Emberpaw says, wondering if the leader has even noticed. "He chased away the other city cat, and I think maybe...they've got him. I talked to Voletooth, and that was my impression." She leaves out Skah's cryptic comments. She wasn't lying; she doesn't have a deathwish.

"I can't do anything about it," Morningstar snaps. "The city is too volatile right now We'll just have to wait, Emberpaw." She looks resigned- to a fate that is not her own, that does not affect her. "What did my daughter and Voletooth do?"

"Toured the territory. She told him of his expectations here, nothing exciting." Emberpaw is reluctant to let the topic go, but knows she'll get nothing further out of the leader. Oakpaw, if he's alive, is now truly on his own. Just as she is. Surrounded by beating hearts, but none are the ones she truly wants to hear.

"Hmm," Morningstar sighs. "Well. Keep an eye on them. _And_-" she adds sharply, severe enough to make her breath catch. Does she suspect, does she know something? Her pulses stutters, but she keeps her expression blank. "You're doing well, Emberpaw. Your warrior ceremony is less than a moon away if you keep this up."

Emberpaw's whiskers twitch in pleasant surprise. She hasn't thought about this, not for a long while. In truth, it still seemed so far away. She's not foolish enough to expect any kind of freedom from Morningstar; she may be a warrior, but she'll always be Morningstar's apprentice. "Thank you," she replies, because some kind of response seems due. She nods, and Morningstar immediately dismisses her. She begins to walk away, and mere moments later Strongclaw is at her heels.

"I'm sorry about Oakpaw," he says. Emberpaw remains silent. Ah, a scrap of pity, for her. It does exist. "If anyone could survive, it would be him. Out of sheer stubbornness." She knows this. There's no need to tell her. However, if there were ever one for pointless talking, it would be Strongclaw.

"Yes," Emberpaw says. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Strongclaw staring at her.

"She didn't like talking to me either," Strongclaw says airily, though his tone is bittersweet. "Looks like she passed it on."

Emberpaw risks a glance at him, his unfathomable blue eyes. It unnerves her. She wonders if all he can see is a ghost. It might as well be true. She turns away. She is not in the mood to be someone else's phantom.

* * *

i wasn't lying shit is about to go down real soon i promise

until then here's some strongclaw to tide you over


	25. Recreant

Recap: Cariad is awkwardly inducted into the Clan, tries and fails to get laid, everyone is confused.

* * *

_Heard you say, "Not today."_

_Tore the curtains down, windows open now, make a sound_

_Heard your voice, "There's no choice."_

_Tore the curtains down, windows open now, make a noise_

-Twenty One Pilots, Not Today

* * *

When he wakes up, he almost wants to smile. He doesn't, of course, because he didn't earn his name with copious amounts of grinning and open displays of emotion. Instead he rises and stretches, albeit looking a little less stern than usual. No one seems to notice as he strolls from the den into the blooming sunshine; already it is warm- oppressively so- but it hardly matters, barely bothers him. It is inconsequential.

"Morning," he says, pausing by Meadowmist. The white she-cat has still not relinquished her role as interim deputy. Morningstar herself has failed to make an announcement about Iceface and the position he left conspicuously vacant. As such, he's made an effort to remain on good terms with the queen; her temper is, infamously, only rivalled by Morningstar's. He's not entirely sure his subtle tactics are working but lukewarm apathy, at best, is still better than outright hatred. The white warrior merely grunts in acknowledgement, mouth full of shrew. To him, this is a tentative success, and he moves on. He's not quite sure how best to occupy his morning; eat, hunt, spar?

In the end, he plucks a squirrel off the prey pile. He must remain sharp, for he is nothing without his wits.

Dimly, he watches the mundane ongoings of camp. It's an image he's seen a thousand times, complacent and lax in its normalcy. The newest warriors strut the perimeters, swelled with their over-developed sense of self-pride. He remembers his own days as a new warrior; it seems like it was the happiest he's ever been. For now. At this thought, the smile threatens to breach his lips. He does not allow it. His mask is the symbol of all he's built, all that festers and waits inside him. All his silence and sorrow. He'll not ruin it yet.

His interest perks as Voletooth walks out of the den. The outsider still looks nervous, as though he's still waiting for someone to snap and slit his throat over their morning meal. He's already been here for days, a week or two perhaps, yet he has not lost his look of abject apprehension. _He's smarter than he seems, then_. Sunfeather strolls out behind him, carefully watching her pair. He nearly sneers; here he is, a full-grown tom, being _baby-sat_. How horrifically humiliating. If Nettlecloud ever tried to coddle _him_ like that...but she wouldn't. Perhaps that she-cat was once soft and malleable, sweet and meek, but he has stripped that from her. Hardened her. Made her into a rival when really she ought to have been his only ally. It does not matter. Where he's going, he will not need allies.

He finishes his squirrel slowly. Much to his chagrin, it's not even afternoon yet. As he picks the final pieces from the squirrel's pearlescent bones, Voletooth sits a cautious distance away from him. He's holding a sparrow, as though he's not quite sure whether it will jump up and bite him. He casts a long, sly look at the black tom. He seems ordinary enough, hardly out of place among the Clanners. He even bears some small resemblance to young dead Volepaw, in the structure of his face and even his eyes. It's almost uncanny, but he doesn't bother to ponder it. There are greater things occupying his thoughts.

One of his sons wanders by as he stands up, and they exchange a nod. His children hardly look anything like him, except little Mosspaw, but he's hardly worried. He can tell they're his by the way Nettlecloud disdains them. Sometimes, it nearly amuses him.

"Have you seen Emberpaw?" he casually asks. Is it so strange, that he should ask after his niece? Perhaps. He doesn't dwell on it, because in his grand scheme, it is not a problem. He has considered every issue, every angle. He is without flaw.

"Uh, yeah?" his son replies. It's Mallowpaw, the one he doesn't really listen to, because he seems to show the least promise of all of them. Burrpaw and Mosspaw can fight, and Fawnpaw has her own lethal sort of charm- she takes after her mother, clearly- but Mallowpaw is relentlessly average. "She was sparring by the river with Morningstar a few minutes ago." So he's not entirely useless, after all.

"Thanks," he says tonelessly, and moves on. He must hurry to reach the river- whilst evading the leader- and doesn't spare the time for farewells. Mallowpaw will just have to repress the rejection suffer the psychological trauma later. He spots Thornstreak on the edge of the clearing, staring after him, but he ignores him. They haven't really spoken since she died; not since Thornstreak returned to camp with an inexplicably empty expression and a delicate dusting of blood on his pelt. That was how he knew, but he hadn't expected it, hadn't calculated that her ice would melt and that she, dangerously, would thaw.

He pushes all thought of his tragic sister from his mind; he can hear the river now, although sounds of mock-fighting are unmistakably absent. To avoid Morningstar he's taken the alternative route, and it has coated his pelt with burrs and leaves. He emerges by the river and stares at it for a moment. How he would love to use it as a weapon, as she does. Perhaps he will one day soon, but for now it's her own beast, and he does not dare disturb it.

Emberpaw is difficult to spot; she merges seamlessly with the shadows on the riverbank and she stares across the water. Morningstar is already gone, thank StarClan. He makes his way over, caution edging his steps- he's never really spoken to Emberpaw, although his pair had become her primary caretaker. In his eyes, they're not exactly family, and between them lies a distance born of estrangement. There's no need to call her name; she looks up s he approaches, eyes narrowed.

"Peppermask," she says warily. Her green eyes hint she knows more about him than she was ever supposed to, but is hardly surprising, considering her quiet watchfulness and extended absences. He can only guess at how she spends her days. In response, he dips his head, the only greeting he will afford her. They are kin in the very loosest definition

There are no pleasantries, no mild smalltalk. "The northern pond before sunset. Morningstar should be there, or else she'll regret it." The words are pleasant as they leave his mouth. Emberpaw looks suspicious, but he doesn't have time to soothe her. She doesn't matter, after all (not that she knows it). "Morningstar, alone," he adds, as an afterthought. He doesn't need collateral damage.

Emberpaw opens her mouth, looking as though she's about to rejection his proposal. Peppermask turns from her swiftly; he did not come here to earn himself a _no_, to receive a rejection when there is room for none. He stalks away from his niece, his smile small and vindictive. This is all he will allow himself. Everything is settling into place so nicely. Perhaps she calls after him, or makes a small noise of dissent; he tunes her out, turning into the forest with a sigh. She will not come easily, but he innately knows she'll do as he says. Her curiosity will not let her rest, although it might lead her to disobey his final command.

Wandering through the forest, he finds his pair's faint scent trail. It mingles with those of the other senior warriors- Tornear, Tallstorm, Coldbone. He hasn't been told their whereabouts, though they've been gone for several days. Peppermask suspects they've ventured out of the territory to capture unsuspecting rogues and loners, steering clear of the smouldering cesspit that is the city. It's too volatile now for a proper raid, although their need for victims is only escalating. His own children are nearly warriors, but there can be no ceremony without spilled blood.

Peppermask follows the trail, idly. Instead of the river, it hugs the gorge, going in the opposite direction of the city and whatever awaits within. Most warriors never have reason to travel so far south, but the times are changing. Peppermask is very familiar with the concept, embraces it, even, but this is a change that strikes wary apprehension into his belly. The balance has grown corrupt, unstable. He himself is evidence of this, but the decay is ever-growing. The blight is bigger than he is.

He twitches as something stirs in the undergrowth, ears pricked and eyes wide- but it is only a mouse, and he relaxes. He catches it without hesitation, snapping down on its neck with grim satisfaction. It's scrawnier than usual, but it makes sense; greenleaf is beginning to wane, and something colder and darker is rising to take its place. Perhaps it will even snow- they received none last year, and Peppermask had been highly disappointed. He would like to see the river frozen over, jagged with ice, black and sleek and conquered by the cold.

Without thinking, he deviates from the path made by Nettlecloud. The trail here is far from well-worn, but it is one that he remembers nonetheless. The other path to the northern pond is trodden and smooth, but this is the shorter version, riddled with brambles and thorns though it is. He doubts Morningstar even knows it exists. It is an enjoyable feeling, to know something the almighty leader does not. It almosts tastes like victory.

He reaches the wide clearing with the mouse dangling limply from his jaws. He's not hungry- the squirrel was a more than sufficient meal- but he may yet need a snack. The pond is dappled with cold looming shadows, black and bottomless in the forest gloom. The mud and mire have eaten away at the roots of the old trees around it, leaving them blackened and exposed. They're sturdy enough, and would make a good den for a desperate individual. Peppermask maintains his silence, stepping softly over leaves and twigs until he reaches a large oak on the edge of the clearing. It is an ancient thing, but even its great age has not saved it from the slow spread of the quagmire. Its roots sprawl across the ground like twisted, fetid entrails, sinuous and serpentine. Peppermask tests his weight on the slick wood; it holds him, without a sound. This is it, the part he hates- he cannot stand tree-climbing, because the idea of falling is always such a heavy weight in his mind. Steeling himself, he unsheathes his claws and leaps at the trunk, finding purchase in the rugged surface of the bark. Gulping, he claws his way up, hardly daring to breath. The mouse he clenches in his jaws only serves to remind him of his own mortality. Peppermask finally makes it to a thick, low-lying branch- still, it's the highest he will tolerate.

He flops down with a sigh, releasing the mouse to sit beside his paws. From here, it's hard to judge the position of the sun, but it must be getting close to nightfall. He has an hour, he supposes, before Morningstar shows up for their designated meeting. His gaze falls on the mouse, which now looks rather mangled and disfigured. It's not exactly appetising, which suits the tabby tom just fine. Later, he thinks, he will eat like a king.

Darkness begins to slink through the forest; his first warning. He sits up straight; through the canopy, he can catch a glimpse of distant red and gold on the horizon. The colours, he muses, a perfect pair. He looks to the mouse again and, with his claws, slowly tears its head from its body. The smell of blood is immediately apparent. It coats his claws, leaks from the small body, crawls across the branch at a tedious pace. It falls to the ground, achingly slow, and Peppermask thinks his can almost hear the droplets thud against the leaf litter. He has timed it to perfection.

The sound of Morningstar's imminent arrival is heralded by her heavy footfalls. She strides into the clearing, looking resounding regal, even with that hint of curiosity in her dark eyes. She glances around, trying to place him among the shadows, but fails to spot him. _Look up_, he thinks, smirking, knowing she will not. Her confidence has become her single, glaring flaw. Morningstar's mouth opens, as though she is about to call for him, but she is interrupted by an ill-tempered roar, low rumbling groan the issues from the very ground. Peppermask's smirk widens, and in that instant, a broad black-and-white head emerges from between the roots. The leader does not see it until its whole body emerges, leanly muscled and bristling with rage. The object of myth and legend, the victim of many a hero.

Morningstar sees the badger and does not flinch. Her eyes narrow, and in them he thinks he sees a challenge, a threat. The badger charges at her with a bellow; she smoothly sidesteps, golden fur glinting in the poor light. As the beast surges past she leaps upon its back, reaching around to slit its fat throat. The badger sprawls on the ground, sliding to a bloody halt, and Morningstar steps elegantly its shoulders. Her movements are calm, serene, as though she has not just slayed a monster, but now there is something darker on her face, a twisted mess of rage and wrath.

He has failed. He planned every minute detail, but forgot to consider the possibility of Morningstar being simply _better_ than the legendary foe, stronger, faster, _deadlier_ than he ever could have foresaw. In his plan, this is where she lies gasping on the ground, the badger's fangs buried in her throat. She will twitch, curse his name with her last breath, and leave a power vacuum only he can fill.

Morningstar's mouth opens, and she howls, a sound of pure vehemence. None of her own have ever tried to kill her before, to assassinate her like some common brawler. Like that, his ambition crumples, lost amongst the rage of her scream, scattered to the winds like bitter ashes. He carefully omitted failure from his grand plan, but it happened anyway.

"You should have made me deputy," he hisses, spitting at her face. Her head whips around, the horrendous noise dying away, but he is already moving, already gone. Peppermask runs, and falls, and runs.

* * *

DID ANYONE SEE MY FORESHADOWING

'not today' haha i am too good :')

rip badger


	26. Cimmerian

Recap: Well, it took Khia like four months to find the warehouse, but now she's there. Aaand now she wants to leave.

ps i hope you like Thad

* * *

_Release me from the present _

_I'm obsessing all these questions_

-Twenty One Pilots, Message Man

She promises the dawn, as she wakes, that she will not fail. Pale light seeps into the the warehouse. _I will not falter. I will find him_. Perhaps she was never meant to lead an aimless existence, a stagnant and happy reality. Khia sighs and blinks her eyes again- she can almost imagine that quiet, blissful life- and realizing, with a small amount of resentment, that Gideon has pressed up against her in the night. She can't really begrudge him for that, she supposes, remembering the hellish events of yesterday. His kinked tail brushes against her flank, and she twitches and pushes away. Perhaps Etch would have tolerated such a disturbance, but she has proven again and again that she is not her meek-mannered cousin.

For a moment, she thinks Cariad's faint scent brushes against her nose; she would have snagged the corner where he slept, but Elettra had already curled up there. Khia had felt small, bitter and jealous, but brushed it aside and picked a separate spot. Khia, after all, was the only one planning to rescue him. _Some friends_, she thinks, snorting. It's a very loud sound, and she pins her ears to her head, peering around and hoping no one caught the embarrassing noise. No such luck.

"Something funny?" Thad asks, whiskers crinkling in amusement.

"No," Khia squeaks, coughing to hide the rustiness of her voice. "Just...just something in my throat." The tips of her ears burn, and she wouldn't be surprised if Thad could feel the heat. Even so, a light, optimistic churning begins in her belly. Khia believes a more romantic cat might call them _butterflies_. It's kind of disgusting.

"Sure, sure," Thad replies, amusement and charm oozing from his words. Khia has encountered such potent charisma before, but it's never been directed at her like this. Ru has a silver tongue, but he never bothered to use it around his foster-daughter. Unused to it, she's slightly flustered. She's not _immune_. Still, she tamps her unbidden feelings down. She's leaving as soon as she can, and she needs to concentrate on rescuing her brother. Thad is mostly certainly a distraction- handsome, charming, but a distraction all the same.

Still, the warehouse is brimming with distractions; Miss, Ru, and even the churlish Clanner Oakpaw. She's always let herself be drawn to the ways of others; their actions, their words. She's followed them willingly to see where they may lead. Not anymore. She can't be inquisitive- she must farewell her curiosity.

"What are you doing, anyway?" Thad asks. "You hanging around?" He doesn't sound enthusiastic, or even remotely optimistic. Still, Khia decides there's something in his voice - a spark of curiosity, perhaps an ounce of caring.

"No," she replies decisively. She's not interested in their petty war and she doubts Miss cares either way whether she stays or goes. "I'm going after Cariad." Khia isn't sure why she tacks that on at the end, as though looking for praise or approval. She hardly needs it. Thaddeus, thankfully, looks mildly impressed.

"You're brave, then," he says. "I wanted to go save him, but Ice said no. Said he'd already be dead by the time I got there."

Khia narrows her eyes. "How would he know that? There's every chance he's alive." Venom enters her voice, and she realizes too late that poor Thad looks a little apprehensive.

"Well, don't go around telling people this, but Ice is a Clanner. He knows firsthand how ruthless they are. Sorry, Khia, but I just don't think you should get your hopes up. They've already killed hundreds of us, what's one more to them?"

She grimaces; no one can tell her Cariad is dead. She would know, would _feel_ something...and all she feels is an invulnerable sense that he is alive, breathing, waiting for her. Khia has never been one for blind faith, but she has it now and trusts it implicitly. There is no alternative. "Like I'm going to let some crusty Clanner make my decisions for me," she mutters. Heaving a cathartic sigh, she glances up at the ceiling, just as Gideon begins to stir beside her.

"Whaddi miss?" he slurs, yawning. "Have you replaced me with my own brother, Khia?"

"What? No!" she squeaks, flushing. "Even if I _did_ manage to replace you, you'd still follow me around anyway," she adds, rolling her eyes. Gideon merely looks amused, and doesn't bother to deny her. Still, Gideon seems to be the only thing she has left- Cariad is gone, Etch is dead and Ru hovers somewhere in the middle. The mere thought of him is enough to make her sick. Thankfully, he has the good sense to stay away; he hasn't kidnapped her during the night, surprisingly enough. It certainly wouldn't be beneath him.

"I'm going to get a bite to eat," Thad says, swiftly getting to his paws as he gives the two of them a pensive glance. He disappears over the lip of the gutter, golden tail swishing with a final flourish in the dusty morning light as he leaves. He extends no invitation to follow.

"We need to talk," she tells Gideon, noting his look of mild confusion. They've created an uneasy alliance, a sort of friendly camaraderie, but he's still not really sure where they stand.

"Here?" he asks, glancing at the remaining cats. Brava and Elettra both seem to be fast asleep. At any rate, they hardly exude the air of an eavesdropper.

"Here's as good as anywhere," she replies, doubting they'll find a quieter spot in the warehouse above. "I'm leaving, Gideon. I'm not just going to give up on Cariad. I can't. You should understand that- you came all this way, just for Thad. And that's exactly why you can't leave, because you _have_ found him and you'll hardly want to go on another doomed mission with me, another foolhardy stupid adventure, so I wanted to say good luck for the future and whatever you decide to do. I'm...I'm glad to have known you." It comes out in a tangled rush, and she's not sure if Gideon understands half of it. He just blinks at her owlishly, and then utters a little laugh.

_I just said _sensitive _stuff_, she thinks, disgruntled, _and he's laughing at me. I may as well leave now._

"Of course I'm coming with you," he says, amusement in his voice. "We said we were going to rescue both of our brothers, and we haven't done that yet. Thad is clearly happy here, and not in danger right now. I _don't_ break promises; you're not rid of me yet."

Her brain ticks, slowly. Two is better than one. Two is stronger, faster, smarter. _That will be advantageous_, she thinks, and so she nods. "Okay," she says. "Thanks, I guess."

"When are we leaving?" he asks. "It seems pretty urgent, but we are...how shall I say it? Very under-prepared."

Her stomach sinks. It's true. They've been eating soft kittypet food, and it has done nothing for their constitution. They're weak, untrained. "Maybe we should stay here for a few days," she murmurs, although she loathes the words as they leave her mouth. "We need to eat real food, and learn how to fight. We're useless to Cariad right now. I just have talk to Ice." She shudders at the thought, but she has to find out as much as she can.

"I'll come with you," Gideon says sympathetically, but she shakes her head.

"Spend time with your brother," she replies, and her words sound a little darker than she intended.

* * *

"He's probably dead," Ice says, perusing her scruffy pelt with dark unreadable eyes.

"Probably?" she persists, ignoring the twitch of Ice's lip as it pulls itself into a sneer. "Do they kill everyone on sight, or what? Is there a chance they left him alive?" Ice strikes an imposing figure, pale and wraith-like, but his cold frowns cannot deter her. He sighs, and his eyes drift past her, although he does not leave.

"PureClan often keeps prisoners in a cave, but the majority are brought in from raids. The loners and rogues they find on the territory are most often executed. I will not tell you your brother is certainly dead, but is a likely fact. If he was not killed on sight- if he were kept because their supplies are running low- then he will be dead soon. The prisoners are all killed sooner or later."

_Kept in a cave_, she thinks to herself. _Got it_.

"Are you training?" Ice asks. "If you are, you should fall into rank now, and not be made an example of."

Gulping, she nods, and melts into the crowd that is amassing on the warehouse floor. Somehow she finds herself beside Gideon and Thad. He nods at her, and a thrill rushes down her spine, which she disguises with a cool, aloof smile. Ice begins shouting instruction up the front- things like _front paw strikes_ and _back kicks_ and _outlast the opponent because they aren't used to enduring lengthy attacks_. It all goes over her head. Khia glances at Gideon, relieved to see he looks as confused as she does.

"Do you want to spar with me?" Brava purrs, looking at Gideon with something in her amber eyes. Khia narrows her eyes at the other she-cat, but she doesn't even bother to glance down. Gideon nods and moves away, trailing after Brava with his ears pricked. His kinked tail twitches a little as he goes, like a dog wagging its tail. Khia wants to gag all over again. She glances around, but everyone is pairing up with little regard to her. Elettra joins a slim black she-cat with a splash of startling white on her chest. Modron, a she-cat she remembers from the basement, is already swiping at a golden tom who also seems familiar.

"Shall we spar together?" Thad asks behind her, his warm voice honey to her ears.

"_Yes_," she replies, turning around. "I thought no one would ask and I'd be the one practising my moves on the air." She giggles, something she never does, but somehow the situation seems to call for it.

"I'm sure the air wouldn't know what hit it," Thad replies smoothly, grinning. His blue eyes flicker with amusement. "I'm assuming you haven't done much battle practice, though. Am I correct?" He doesn't seem to be judging her, just assessing the limits of her knowledge.

"No," she says, scuffing her paws on the ground. "Andraste didn't really know any moves, and I couldn't even defend myself against the toms who..." Again, she realizes how stupid it would have been to charge headlong into PureClan territory without an ounce of training. At least she can only get Etch killed once.

"I heard about your cousin. I'm sorry," Thad says, eyes turning dark. "You can use that pain and anger to become a better fighter. I know I have." He turns to look at Ice, who is demonstrating several brutal moves at the head of the crowd. "That's a bit advanced for you, I think. We'll go back to the basics. It'll be good for me to go over them again."

Slowly, they begin to discuss form and technique. They move onto real sparring, and Khia hits the ground every time, although Thad winces with sympathy. There's so much in her head- when to move, spin and strike, what to do and how. She hardly feels as though she's improved by the end of the day, when Ice sharply calls to cease and desist. Groaning as she stands, she watches Brava slide off Gideon's back with a smug, pretty smile.

"Brava is...very friendly," Thad comments, following her gaze. "Although Cariad never really seemed to like her." Khia refrains from sneering, but she very much agrees with her brother. "Will you share a blackbird with me, Khia? You should get some rest some, your body won't be used to all that fight."

_And falling on the floor_, she thinks. "Sure," she agrees, noticing Gideon has left Brava and is looking for her in the crowd. "I'd kill for a meal right now."

* * *

This pattern continues for several days; she gets better at fighting, though she knows she'll never be great. Thad is a kind and patient teacher, but Khia finds it's almost hard to concentrate when he's around. She also pesters Ice for more information, although he is not forthcoming. It's Gideon who comes up with the idea, and she pounces on it. They've spent a lot of time here- perhaps too much. The sooner they leave, the better.

Khia gingerly climbs the stairs as darkness falls. Achilleus is gone again and some random sentry remains in his place, napping lightly at the foot of the stairs. Stealth has always been an area of aptitude for Khia, and she doesn't encounter a single problem as she creeps towards the gallery. Miss and Emory are curled up together on a pile of empty sacks. Neither stir as Khia sneaks past and reaches the gaping hole in the wall. It is pitch-black, dark as the night, and she can't see a single thing inside of it. Still, optimistically, she jumps down into it, and lands on a warm pile of tabby fur.

Oakpaw wakes with a hiss, throwing her off and pinning her to the floor. "Stop _landing_ on me before you break something else!" he snaps.

"Uhh...it's me...Khia," she says, wriggling, although Oakpaw's grip doesn't loosen. "I was the one...talking to you- um- about my brother." She prays he remembers, and doesn't decide to cut her throat.

"Oh, you," Oakpaw replies, relaxing his stance and letting her up. As her eyes adjust to the darkness, she sees him shake one paw and wince. "Can I help you? Most decent cats like to sleep right about now."

"I came to find out everything I can about what PureClan does with its prisoners, since Ice won't tell me. I'm going to rescue Cariad."

"You'll die," he says, laughing derisively. "Anyone who steps foot in PureClan territory dies."

"And that matters to you? Just tell me," she snaps.

"It won't matter what I tell you," he says, amusedly looking her up and down. "Any way you try it, you'll die. There's something to be said for your persistence...but it won't save your life. Or your brother. Unless, of course…" He trails, his eyes aglow in the dark. His golden irises are fever-bright.

"Unless what?" she asks sharply. If there's a chance she will take it. _To hell with the consequences._

"We both want something," he says smoothly. "I'll rescue your brother; it makes sense. I'm one of them. In order for me to do that, you'll help me escape this prison. Ergo, we both get what we want."

"And how do I know you won't turn on me the moment we get out of here?" she asks suspiciously. "Why haven't you escaped already?" She squints at him, as though she can visually detect his honesty or lack thereof.

Oakpaw shrugs, holding up his paw. "It's broken," he replies mildly. "For now, I can't do it on my own. What do you say?"

She stares at the dark tom. A thought, lonely and lost and far-away, flashes through her mind. "On one condition," she says slowly. Oakpaw looks at her, ears pricked and eyes narrowed.

"I'm getting you your brother back," he growls. "What else could you want?"

That distant memory calls to her. She has always been a creature of curiosity, but this means something more. "We have a deal," she tells him, "if you tell me everything you know about Sablefrost and Smokefang."

Khia sees him flinch. He recoils, before he recovers so smoothly she's hardly sure if he moved at all. "How do you know their names," he growls flatly, hackles rising steadily.

"It doesn't matter. _Take_ me to them. I need to meet them." It hadn't really occurred to her before, but she'll be going in that direction anyway… Would her mother have recognised herself in Cariad? Would her father? Could they have saved him from certain death- is this the reason she feels so certain her brother is alive?

Oakpaw turns his face away. "I can't very well do that," he says. "They're dead."

* * *

wellll khia is finally all caught up

life update time: where do i start?

you may have noticed the updates have slowed down a bit. this is because i've started uni and holy hell i don't have time to write but i'm writing anyway? On top of that I've been food-poisoned several times (i have a very sensitive allergy which sucks) and a month and a half ago I had to put down my rabbit Oreo when her abcess burst. It was a horrible process, for me and her, but it was the only option we had left. so yeah, i didn't feel like writing very much after that.

on a more positive note i am going to see my most favourite band of all time on saturday (hint: today's lyric choice) and it's going to be amazing.

anyway. there's probably more that i forgot but eh


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